


Watch for that Moment

by Teshayel



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Action/Adventure, Eventual Romance, F/M, Family Feels, Lyrium, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-06
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-10 16:12:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 39,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3296603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teshayel/pseuds/Teshayel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I love Anders, but I was cringing all throughout the romance dialogues. Here is a more mature approach to things. Narration will focus on events occurring between quests. Expect an in-depth illustration of Anders' descent into madness, more meaningful family ties, more dangerous Templars, subtler and more varied magic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Money Troubles

**"You must gather your party before venturing forth" (BG)**

It was a morning much like any other in Gamlen Amell's Lowtown home. The smell of rotten cabbage permeated every square inch of the hovel, and even Leandra's cooking did nothing to diminish its intensity. Sabine sighed as she finished gearing up, absurdly thinking that the smell might be just bad enough to keep the Templars away. She tied her thick, auburn hair loosely back and then looked over at Carver, still in deep slumber. She couldn't help but envy the peaceful look on his face. Then again, her brother could sleep through a hurricane.

"Wake up, you," she said, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Carver?" She got no more than a deep snore from him. "All right, you leave me no choice," she smiled, her green eyes full of mischief. She gestured at the air, and her brother levitated off the bed, higher and higher, until he almost hit the ceiling. The tin plate that had been licked clean of last night's meal followed, along with a spoon. Sabine kept them close to the young man's ear then clapped her hands together, and the spoon obediently commenced beating chaotically against the plate. Carver jerked up with a start, only to bang his head against a wooden beam with a thud, and then screamed like a girl as Sabine let him drop. She caught him a few inches from the floor and wore a satisfied smirk as Carver began the usual string of curses.

"Stop it, you two!" Leandra burst in, a wooden spoon in her hand held up threateningly. "Sabine! What are you, seven? Stop haranguing your brother!"

"You know he won't get up otherwise," came the protest.

"You'll pay for this, Sabine!" Carver warned, his face as red as a ripe tomato.

"Oh? And what will you do, big man of the house? Nail my pigtails to the bed?" Sabine replied mockingly.

"I'll show you!" Carver bellowed, rushing towards his sister, vainly grabbing at her.

"Enough!" their mother cried, a finality in her voice that brooked no opposition. Sabine shuffled her feet embarrassed, while Carver's eyes were throwing daggers. "Breakfast, and out with you!"

Once outside, Carver smacked Sabine lightly over the head, then got an ineffectual shove in return. He chuckled. "Might as well try to move a mountain, you pipsqueak."

"Hey, watch it!" Sabine warned. "I'm the eldest, remember?" How did the years pass so quickly? He now towered over her, that skinny boy that had once been all knees and elbows. He also wielded a two-hander as if it were a butter knife, something she was rather proud of, though she would have never confessed to it.

"A fact poorly reflected in your behaviour," he chafed.

"Oh, and you are so much better?"

Back and forth the bickering went, and before they knew it, they were in Hightown.

"There's the dwarf," Carver said pointing out a stout figure with plaited beard and a ponytail.

It had been the same story every day for the past week: trying to convince Bartrand Tethras to take them onto his Deep Roads expedition. Maker, they needed the money desperately. Not having parted on the best of terms with Athenril, and with no money for bribes, it was only a matter of time before the Templars came knocking on their door.

"We have experience fighting Darkspawn, dwarf," Carver was trying to make a case for them, though Bartrand remained unimpressed.

"I do not care if you tore the horns off an ogre with your bare hands," the dwarf retorted. "I know your kind, just looking for a quick way out of the slums. The air must be a bit thin high up there around your head. The answer is 'no', as it was all this week."

"What my brother meant," Sabine put in carefully, "is that the risks of such a venture would be significantly reduced with the appropriate swords to guard you, your men and your spoils."

"I have made all the necessary arrangements," Bartrand replied dismissively. "I do not need dog lord swords."

"That went well," Sabine said sourly as they picked their way across Hightown.

"There must be something we can do to convince him to take us on," Carver fumed. "You are certainly doing a fine job showcasing our skills."

"Carver, I've been hounding him for a week now," Sabine replied annoyed. "What is it that you expect me to do?"

"You're the eldest," he shot back. "You mean to tell me you don't have everything worked out?"

Sabine was cut short mid-sentence, as a scrawny youngster whizzed past her and relieved her of her diminutive purse.

"Hey! Come back here!" she cried in vain. Both her and Carver chased after him, but had little hope of catching up with the nimble thief. To their surprise, however, as they turned around the corner, they saw the culprit pinned to the wall of a building, confronted by a dwarf with an enormous crossbow slung across his back.

"You don't have the flair to work Hightown," the dwarf mocked and followed up with a well-placed upper cut. "I suggest you find yourself another line of work." He retrieved the bolt from the thief's cloak, and let the fellow run as fast as his feet could carry him.

"Varric Tethras, at your service," the dwarf introduced himself and threw the pouch back to Sabine. "I must apologize for my brother. Bartrand wouldn't know an opportunity if it hit him squarely in the face."

"But you would?" Sabine asked cocking a brow.

"Indeed," Varric replied, and then proceeded with his business offer. Apparently, Bartrand's expedition was not resting on solid ground just yet. In fact, the undertaking was a significant number of gold coins away from becoming reality. "My brother could not refuse an investment into his venture," Varric continued. "Fifty sovereigns weigh heavily enough in a purse to justify you joining in as a partner, with equal shares."

"Fifty sovereigns?" Carver was revolted. "If we had that coin, we wouldn't be bloody looking to get killed in the Deep Roads."

"My brother makes a point, Varric," Sabine interjected. "With that kind of gold, I would not go spelunking in some forgotten thaig and risk ending up as decoration on an ogre's horns."

"You need to think bigger, Hawke," the dwarf said expansively. "Countless thaigs have been abandoned to the Darkspawn, along with all their treasure. The Blight conveniently brought the Horde out, and its defeat means those thaigs will remain empty for some time. What we will find there will return your investment at least ten-fold, if not more."

"It could mean the end of all our troubles," Carver said quietly.

"So, how am I to put together such an amount?" Sabine asked frowning.

"The name Hawke is on many lips these days," Varric replied smoothly. "Surely, there is no shortage of jobs here in Kirkwall for someone of your reputation. I would be happy to assist you, as would Bianca," the dwarf patted his exotic crossbow affectionately. "Set aside some coin with every venture, and before you know it, we will be ready for the Deep Roads."

"Very well, Varric Tethras," Sabine held out her hand, "you have a deal."

"In that case, maybe we should start with Aveline," Carver suggested. "Perhaps there are some jobs we could do for the City Guard."

"That is a good start," Sabine agreed. "To the Viscount's Keep, then."

 

* * *

 

Sabine was glad to see her friend again. She wholeheartedly congratulated Aveline on her recent promotion among the ranks of the City Guard. She was also amused to find that her friend was rather bored with the job.

"Say, perhaps there is something you could help out with, Hawke," Aveline said, her eyes twinkling. Some information had reached her about a potential caravan raid, and since the Captain was not ready to act simply on a rumour, Aveline intended to take matters into her own hands. "I hate sitting around here all day long, when I could do something good out there." The site was on the way to Sundermount. "According to my information, a caravan will be passing in the area two days hence, coming down the path, so we must leave tomorrow morning to get there on time."

"You can always count on me, Aveline," Sabine replied smiling.

The siblings and the dwarf left the Keep, and all agreed it was high time for lunch. The Hanged Man was suggested as a solid choice for a cheap meal served with everyone's favourite watered-down ale.

"Before we leave Kirkwall, there is something I'd suggest we look into," Varric said as he plopped himself into a chair. He was a permanent resident of the inn, and occupied lavishly furnished rooms that stood in stark contrast to the rest of the establishment. "While Bartrand can lead us to the proper sites once we are down in the Deep Roads, we currently have no good entry points."

"Wouldn't any entrance do? Unless there was a dragon sitting in it, I suppose," Sabine suggested smirking.  
Varric chuckled, "That would be rather upsetting. We did have a few access points lined up, but they all turned out to be a bust. Now, rumours have been circulating about a Fereldan Grey Warden here in Kirkwall."

"It is not wise to interfere with Grey Wardens, Varric," Sabine cautioned.

"I am hoping he might be of the sympathetic kind," the dwarf countered. "If anyone knows how to get into the Deep Roads, it would be him."

"Well, I certainly have no better ideas," Sabine pursed her lips. "We'll do it your way, Varric."

The Fereldan refugees Varric had suggested to approach on the matter were reluctant to give up any information on the Grey Warden, but Sabine managed to set them at ease. His name was Anders, and apparently he broke away from his order. Currently he was aiding those most wretched in the city, lending his healing abilities for free. He was running a clinic amidst the misery and despair of Darktown, where the poorest of the poor resided.

"Great," Carver put in sourly as they left Lowtown. "Yet another delicate mage-flower."

"Oh, shush, you," Sabine admonished, rolling her eyes.

Darktown was not the most idyllic quarter in Kirkwall. Sabine navigated the muddy alleyways as quickly as she could, trying hard to avoid dwelling upon the desperate situation of the residents. Many of them were refugees, just like her, who had fled the horrors of the Blight in Ferelden never knowing that what awaited them in Kirkwall was not much better. Among them were good men, farmers and merchants who had earned an honest living in their homeland. Now they were all but broken, forced into beggary and crime.

The atmosphere was even more sombre in the clinic, where the ill and the infirm lay surrounded by their grieving families. Everyone's eyes were on the healer, however, who was presently struggling to drag a boy away from death's door. The latter was all covered in blood, as was his mother who was softly weeping at his side. The healer's hands drowned in blue light, and suddenly, with a deep inhale, the boy woke, and smiled weakly. His mother took him in her arms, sobbing uncontrollably.

It was only then that the healer noticed the small band of well-armed mercenaries watching his moves. "I have made this place a sanctum of healing and salvation!" He thundered at the trespassers. "Why do you threaten it?"

"Please, there is no need for that," Sabine replied calmly, turning her palms up in a gesture of peace. "We were told you were a Grey Warden - "

"If you are here to take me back, I am not going," the healer interrupted. "Those bastards made me give up my cat. Poor Ser Pounce-a-Lot."

"You had a cat named Ser Pounce-a-Lot?" Sabine asked, a blank look on her face.

"He was a gift. A noble beast," the Warden rambled on. "Got nearly ripped in half by a genlock once. Swatted the bugger on the nose. Drew blood too. I had to leave him with a friend in Amaranthine, though. They said he made me soft."

"Right, well," Sabine cleared her throat rather embarrassed. The man was a Grey Warden, part of an order of hardened warriors that could give even the bravest of knights reason to pause. He was also towering almost as much over her as her brother did. Cats were not what she would have expected as a first topic.

"I am part of a Deep Roads expedition, and was given to understand that you have maps of the area," Sabine finally went on. "I was hoping you'd be willing to sell them to me."

"No," was the disappointing answer.

"No?" Sabine echoed. "Surely, you must be in need of coin," she said gesturing at the ramshackle furniture. The equally pathetic patients had mysteriously disappeared in the meantime.

"I am, but I have no reason to trust you with such a document," the healer pointed out.

"Let's go," Carver muttered. "There's nothing for us here."

Sabine looked flustered, but nodded. "Sorry to have disturbed you then," she said curtly, and turned to leave. She was barely out the door, when the healer caught up with them.

"Wait. Rather than coin, perhaps you could render a service? A favour for a favour? Does that sound fair to you?" The healer spoke hopefully.

"What sort of favour are we talking about?" Sabine asked cocking a brow. "I'll have you know I don't do anything involving children or animals."

The healer looked taken aback, not sure whether to take it as a joke. "No, nothing of the sort," he muttered confused. "I have a friend in the Gallows. The Templars are ruthless here, and his last few letters sounded alarming. He was fearing for his life. I have to help him get away from Kirkwall."

"Freeing a mage?" Sabine asked doubtfully.

"Being a mage doesn't make a person less human," Anders bit off the words. "Or do you believe we should all be caged like animals?"

Sabine shook her head, sadness flitting over her delicate face. "Nothing of the sort. I just don't like the idea of crossing Templars. But if this is what it takes to get the maps, so be it."

"Thank you," the healer replied relieved. "Meet me at the Chantry four hours after sundown. With any luck, we will go unnoticed."

Sabine sighed displeased, but nodded agreement. "You never asked for my name," she said forcing a smile.

"I, ah - yes. Forgive my manners. I am Anders."

"You may call me Hawke," Sabine replied, holding out her hand, which Anders took uncertainly. "This is my brother, Carver, and my business associate, Varric Tethras."

Back at the Hanged Man, Carver began questioning her decision. "Sabine, this expedition is to get the Templars off our back, not to draw their unwanted attention. It is not worth it. There must be another way."

"I doubt it," Sabine replied dispirited.

"We could have just taken the maps from him."

"Carver, I do not wish to draw the ire of the Grey Wardens – "

"But Anders is a former Grey Warden."

"Even so, one Warden is worth ten knights, and a mage Warden... well, I am not sure if I could handle him. Besides, you know very well it is not how I do things."

"As you wish, Sister. But I have the feeling we are jumping out of the frying pan into the fire," Carver conceded irritated.

 

* * *

 

They stole their way to the Chantry at the appointed hour. Their faces veiled and black cloaks trailing, they looked like wraiths haunting the streets. Anders was already waiting for them. Sabine urged them to move quickly, unwilling to spend any more time than was necessary within Templar domain.

They found Anders' friend on the upper level, standing by a bookcase.

"Anders, I know you too well," the man said in an unexpected monotone.

"Karl, no!" Anders cried, rushing to his friend's side.

Sabine cursed under her breath when she realized that the mage had been made tranquil. "This is a trap," she hissed at Carver, and quickly traced a glyph on his shoulder to strengthen him.

"I knew you would not give up," Karl droned. "This is the apostate I have told you about," he said staring past Sabine. Templars closed in on them.

_Can I go all out?_

_Direct attack is useless against them. The lyrium makes them resistant. But if the earth shakes beneath their feet, they will lose balance. Keep them as far away from you as possible, so they will not block you. And, remember, an arrow in the neck will accomplish what fire and lightning cannot._

Malcolm Hawke's voice rang distantly in Sabine's ears. Her eyes ablaze with the magic needed to push her body beyond its capacity, she set four throwing daggers in quick succession. In the span of two heart beats, four Templars dropped lifeless to the floor. She never managed to throw the new pair she had readied, however.

"You shall not harm another mage again!" Anders suddenly boomed in an unearthly voice. Blue light covered his body in rivulets and flooded his eyes. It was almost as if something was trying to burst through his skin. And then it did. There was a blinding flash and Sabine was brutally knocked against the wall, where she lost consciousness. When her eyes fluttered open, the world was spinning in a blur. Someone was calling her name from very far away. Why was it so hard to focus?

"Sabine, look at me!"

"Wha- Carver?" she muttered groggily.

"How many fingers am I holding up?" her brother asked waving three fingers before her eyes. She pushed him away scowling and looked around. The floor was littered with dead Templars. Not far from them, the culprit was talking heatedly to his friend.

"Anders, you must," Karl begged. "You cannot imagine what it is like! All the colour, all the music in the world - gone!"

"No, not this," Anders shook his head. "You might as well ask me to kill my brother."

"I would rather die a mage than spend the rest of my life as an empty shell," Karl pleaded. "I am asking you as a friend! Quickly, before it fades!"

Anders briefly glanced at Sabine, his face a mask of grief, and then produced a dagger.

"Why are you looking at me like that, Anders?" Karl asked in the monotone of a tranquil.

"Forgive me, my friend," the healer murmured, and slid the blade up to its hilt between the man's ribs. "I can provide healing once we are out of here, but now we must hurry," he said rushing past everyone.

The peace and quiet of Hightown struck Sabine as something wrong, considering what had just transpired in the Chantry. She could not afford to linger there too long, however, and thus hurried down the streets fast on Anders' heels. Once they were in Lowtown, she grabbed the healer's arm, forcing him to whirl around.

"You! You have a lot of explaining to do," she seethed behind her veil.

"We are both more than we appear to be, Hawke," Anders replied quietly. "But this is not the place to discuss our circumstances, don't you think?"

"Perhaps we should head to my quarters at the Hanged Man?" Varric put in gently.

 

* * *

 

Sabine's face was a thunderstorm as she paced Varric's rooms in silent fury. The dwarf was eyeing her hands – now shrouded in black mist – with apprehension. Carver was directing a murderous glare at Anders, while the latter kept his features carefully composed.

"What happened in there, Anders?" She finally stopped in her tracks, and looked the mage squarely in the face.

"I am sorry, I - "

"You started glowing and then killed a dozen Templars!" Sabine snapped. "What happened?"

"I have some special circumstances," Anders began in measured tones.

"Let me guess?" Sabine snorted. "This is the part where you tell me you are an abomination."

"No!" Anders stood up enraged. He then placed his palms on the table, making an obvious effort at reigning in his temper. "But it is not very far from the truth."

"Well, this should be good," Sabine laughed mirthlessly.

"When I was in Amaranthine, I met a spirit of Justice that was trapped outside the Fade. We... became friends. He recognized the plight of mages in Thedas, and perceived it as an injustice. He... expressed a wish to change things. Together, he thought we could fight against the oppressive rule of the Chantry. I... agreed." Anders paused, working his jaw. "They harm children," he said darkly, then cleared his throat and went on in a milder tone. "I thought I was helping a friend. He would have died otherwise, I guess. Things went wrong, however. I am not sure whether it was coming in contact with human emotions in general, or my own anger, but the spirit became twisted. He is no longer my friend, Justice, but a force of vengeance. Now, things that have always enraged me, but I could never do anything about, bring him out. And Vengeance knows no mercy."

"And you believe spirits to be different from demons?" Sabine asked failing to take the edge off her voice.

"Demons embody our weaknesses, everything that is ugly within our souls," he returned sharply. "Spirits embody our virtues, like bravery, fortitude, justice."

Sabine studied the former Warden for a brief moment, then let out a long breath. Carver looked ready to strike Anders down with one mighty blow of his sword, while Varric shifted uncomfortably in his seat. She took a chair facing Anders and considered her father's teachings about the Fade.

It was nothing but a great trap for mages, where demons lurked at every turn ready to take over one's mind. She had once believed her father's stories about blood mages and abominations to be exaggerated - Malcolm Hawke's way of scaring his daughters into submission when it came to magic. However, Kirkwall and its thin Veil proved her wrong. Presently, if there was one thing she feared more than the Templars, it was mages weak enough to give in to the allure of blood magic and the promises of demons.

"What am I to do with you, Anders? I have so many objections to your reasoning, I do not even know where to begin." She wanted to begin by calling the man an idiot. He still had the maps, however. Antagonizing Anders might also have led to a fireball blowing up in her face.

"You do not have to agree with me – "

"I don't, but what's done is done. Special circumstances indeed." Sabine chuckled, shaking her head, the anger suddenly gone. "So, can the two of you be separated?"

"Not without killing us both," Anders replied. "Even the greatest scholar would find himself hard pressed to tell you just where I begin and Justice ends."

"Then it becomes a matter of controlling him," Sabine concluded. "I would like to help you."

Anders stared at her nonplussed. Even Carver looked up surprised. Well, she couldn't quite explain why she had made such an offer, either. The healer was certainly a good man – after all, it was not every day that she met someone ready to aid those that Kirkwall had discarded without looking to gain some profit from it. But why not leave it to the Wardens?

"I... thank you," the mage stammered. "I am not sure if there is anything that you can do. You are the first person I have ever shared this with. I am surprised you did not run away."

"I am the type of person that would fight rather than run," she growled.

"Right. I guess I owe you some maps," Anders said clearing his throat, and pushed the documents across the table.


	2. Birthright

**"No, we're not mercenaries. We just carry weapons and kill things for the joy of the experience" (BG)**

 

Sabine was so tired she could barely walk. She thought of Carver and how angry he had been at her for refusing to take him along to help Aveline. She sighed. The foolish boy would never understand how much she feared for his safety whenever he tagged along on a job. Sabine preferred to take their mabari instead, which only deepened her brother's resentment. Presently, Toby lay obediently at her feet, issuing a low growl every time a guard would pass too closely for his liking. She patted him on the head, and leaned wearily against the wall, just outside Captain Jeven's office in the Barracks. Aveline was inside, reporting on what had transpired at the ambush site, but judging by the yelling that went on inside, her commanding officer was none too happy about her taking matters into her own hands. The door finally banged open, and a furious Aveline stomped out followed by Jeven's mockery of Ferelden methods, and how they did not apply to Kirkwall.

"Well, that went rather well," Sabine offered cautiously. She drew a frustrated look from Aveline, whose flushed cheeks now perfectly blended with her fiery hair.

"It is our job to protect the people of Kirkwall, and that includes the trade caravans this city depends on," she said flustered. "What difference does it make which patrol stopped the ambush?"

"I think you just managed to upset a very delicate balance," Sabine ventured. "Apparently, the Guard and the Underworld have more in common than suspected."

Aveline made an impatient sound. She had little tolerance for sarcasm, even if it came from her friend. "What I mean is that all criminal factions here claim a territory, and are never pleased to have their turf invaded. You must have stepped on someone's toes."

Dismayed at the prospect of things standing thus within the Guard, Aveline checked the duty roster and found Brennan's patrol had been assigned that route. To their surprise, the very lieutenant shuffled over to Aveline, all thankful for saving her neck.

"You are a good one, Aveline," the woman said warmly. Then she expressed her astonishment at an ambush having occurred on that route, since it had been clear and quiet for a long time. After all, why send a guard on single patrol if it was unsafe? "I would have ended up in a ditch, if it hadn't been for you, Aveline," Brennan continued. "Well, there was one thing... The satchel was quite heavy."

"The  _satchel_?" Sabine asked puzzled.

"It contains pay and order assignments," Aveline explained. "The satchel is given to Guardsmen on light duty, who can then easily get to the farther outposts. But why would it be heavy?"

"I never looked inside. I was asked to pass it on to Donnic, however," Brennan offered.

"Let me guess?" Sabine piped up. "Another quiet route for a single patrol?"

Aveline quickly looked up the roster to find Donnic's patrol route, and stormed out of the barracks saying, "Quickly, Hawke, we have no time to lose. We must go to Lowtown and help Donnic." Sabine groaned inwardly, but followed her friend with Toby in tow. She suggested to pass by the Hanged Man and pick up Varric, but was cut short by Aveline's curt "no time for that".

"Aveline, wouldn't it be wiser to ask for an extra hand? Just the two of us and a mabari?" Sabine insisted.

" _You_  killed an ogre, by my recollection," Aveline countered, never breaking her stride.

"There is no time, and Lowtown should be clear of Templars by this time, so you can go all out."

"I suppose all apostates are black at night," Sabine laughed mirthlessly.

They zigzagged their way through the meandering streets of the slums retracing Donnic's steps, with Aveline and Toby running like soldiers on a charge, while Sabine stole through the shadows fast on their heels.  _I swear this running around is beginning to wear on me_ , she thought, and found her empty stomach growling in agreement. Thanks to Aveline, she had skipped lunch and dinner, and was beginning to feel the effects of it. Sabine held her friend in high esteem, trusting her judgement and wisdom, but that juggernaut of a woman could tread even the hardiest of people into the ground. Thus, when Aveline launched into her battle cry and disappeared behind a corner, Sabine mumbled a short prayer of thanks and burned through her last reserves to catch up and support her friend with a little fire and lightning. They made short work of the ruffians, but then again, they stood little chance trapped between a woman-shaped battering ram and a barrage of lightning bolts.

Aveline helped Donnic to his feet, who had been knocked unconscious during the melee, but otherwise appeared uninjured.

"Aveline?" he voiced astonished. "You are a beautiful sight!"

That prompted a snort from Sabine, which luckily went unnoticed by her friend that stood absorbed gazing at her fellow guard. Not wanting to interrupt, she started looking around for the  _satchel_. She found it on the body of one of the thugs, and removed the documents it contained.

"Caravan routes, trade manifests, shipment schedules," Sabine flipped through the pile of papers. "Valuable for a guild of thieves."

Aveline knotted her brows at the City Guard's involvement in this. "This  _will_  be known!"

 

* * *

 

 

The shouting could be heard from outside, and Toby started growling when Sabine opened the door to her uncle's house.  _Here we go again._

"You were supposed to marry the Comte du Launcet," she heard Gamlen's accusing voice streaming in from the kitchen. "Instead, you ran off with that bloody mage, and left me to shoulder our parents' grief! You didn't even come home for father's funeral!"

"The twins were barely a week old!" That was her mother, defensive, and quite pathetic.

Carver was sitting in the corner far from the entrance, his head resolutely on the table. He perked up when the door opened.

"Did he come home drunk again?" Sabine asked quietly. Carver merely rolled his eyes, and placed his head back on the table, ears covered. Sighing, she stepped into the kitchen.

"What is going on?" Sabine stepped between her uncle and her mother. Maker, she was too tired for this.

"I just cannot believe that father didn't leave me anything," her mother cried. "I asked Gamlen about the will, but he - "

"You left, Leandra. They did not take that lightly."

"I don't believe you!" Leandra went on stubbornly. "Show me the will!"

"I already told you, I do not have it!" Gamlen said throwing his hands up exasperated.

"Was it destroyed?" Sabine asked trying to ease the tension.

"I do not know what happened to it," her uncle snapped. "Our home was taken. For all I know, it might still be there."

Sabine snorted, "You mean you  _gambled_  it away."

"Don't you dare take that tone with me, young lady," Gamlen threatened. "After all, it is under  _my_  roof that you are living!"

Seeing no point in continuing the debate, Sabine suggested everyone to calm down and go to bed. Tired to the bones, she collapsed onto her straw mattress without bothering to undress. She would have fallen asleep immediately, had Carver not tossed his own pillow at her from his bed on the other side of the room.

"Would you  _mind_?" she cried grumpily. "I am trying to sleep here."

"Can you proof the room?" her brother asked into the darkness.

"You got to be kidding me," Sabine lamented. "Are you serious?"

"Yes, do it."

"Fine," was the grudging reply. Sabine closed her eyes and traced a warding glyph into the palm of her hand. She then placed that palm against the door, and the air grew thicker while the very walls of their room seemed to breathe in and then out. "There, no one can hear you now. Happy?"

"Things are getting worse with Gamlen," her brother began after a brief silence.

"Which is why I need to get onto that Deep Roads expedition," Sabine groaned.

" _You_  need to get onto it?" Carver latched on immediately, getting up from his own bed, and looming over her in the dark room. She figured he must be directing a murderous gaze at her. "Don't tell me you are not going to take me with you? We talked about this!"

Sabine hid her face beneath her pillow and yelled into it. She then conjured a small flame between her fingers and scowled at Carver. Indeed, his eyes were throwing daggers.

"Look, I've had a long day," she explained patiently. "This is really not the moment to talk about it."

"So, you won't take me!" Carver cried. "Once again, you leave me behind to tend to mother."

"Carver, she worries herself sick every time I do take you with me," Sabine protested.

"This is not just a midnight raid. It could be weeks before we return. There will be Darkspawn, and Maker knows what else."

"I would rather have her worry about me than treat me as if I was invisible," Carver spat and commenced pacing the small room. "You and her both."

"What?" Sabine couldn't believe her ears. "You know better than that!"

"Don't you dare coddle me, Sabine! You are four years my senior, not forty!"

The flames went from her fingers to the candle next to the window.  _No rest for the wicked_ , she thought sourly. Her brother wanted to talk, and that was that. She listened to how her mother still grieved over Bethany, and how dearly she wished her little girl was still alive. She listened to how Leandra was pining over her family's lost fortune, how she needled Gamlen over the will, and how she could not believe there was no coin left.

"She thinks she can get it all back," Carver explained nonplussed. "She even gave me her old key to try and search for the will."

"Why wouldn't she give me that key?" Sabine asked puzzled.

"I think even she realizes how ridiculous it sounds," Carver offered shrugging. "The place is overrun by slavers. Besides, what are the chances of some old documents still being there after so many years?"

"Well, we could look into it," Sabine suggested. "Maybe that will give the both of you some peace."

 

* * *

 

"You have  _got_  to be kidding me," Sabine rolled her eyes as Anders' clinic came into view. "Carver, are you sure this is where the entrance is?" Her brother gave an exasperated 'yes' and stomped up the stairs. And there he was standing by the door, putting out a lantern, Darktown's favourite abomination.

"Hawke?" came the uncertain greeting. Sabine grimaced. Getting away unnoticed would have been too much to ask.

"Good evening, Anders," she replied forcing a smile.

"What brings you to this part of Darktown?" The healer's answering smile never reached his eyes. "Have you changed your mind about me?" he asked quietly.

"I don't like your tone, mage," Carver piped up, stepping between them. "Careful, or I  _will_  have you bound, gagged and delivered to the Wardens."

"Easy on the threats, boy," Anders warned. "You do not know what you are up against."

"That is  _enough_ ," Sabine snapped. "The both of you, back off. Anders, we are here because of your lousy neighbours."

"Pardon?" the former Warden looked as if he'd swallowed a fishbone.

"Your neighbours, they're slavers," she elaborated lamely.

"How about it, Blondie?" Varric stepped in gallantly. "Care to lend a hand in weeding out the scum next-door?" 'Blondie' agreed without hesitation.

"Wait, you have a key?" he asked suspiciously as soon as Sabine proceeded to unlock the door of the building standing next to the clinic.

"We've had our eyes on this place for a while," she replied smoothly. "Bursting in head first is not my style." Carver snorted at this, but the healer did not press for further information.

They made their way stealthily through winding corridors and dusty rooms with Varric scouting ahead for traps.

"You might want to strategize what you are going to do once you turn that corner," the dwarf whispered, readying his exotic crossbow. "There are eight guards in there, armed to the teeth."

The plan was simple: Sabine was to send all eight of them flying at the ceiling, with Carver and Toby picking through them once they hit the floor. Varric was to shoot anything that still moved...

"And what about me?" Anders asked frowning.

"You can take care of the healing, should any of us be in need of it," Sabine replied. Carver started protesting at that, but she cut him short immediately, and then stomped determinedly down the hall.

Things went smoothly, until a second wave of henchmen burst into the room, with a mage bringing up the rear.

"Shit!" Sabine hissed, pushing Varric and Anders out of the way with a blast of magic as a ball of flames came hurtling their way. She managed to raise a wall of ice just in time to counter the heat, and found herself in a puddle of water. Gesturing at the air, she willed the dust around that mage to stick together and become heavy, momentarily trapping him in a stony prison. In the meantime, Carver was wreaking havoc among the mercenaries, while Varric shot off one bolt after the other, every single one hitting home. Anders seemed to be the only one in trouble, surrounded by three thugs. In a moment, however, they were engulfed by blue mist and were frozen in place. He then sent a hail of rocks flying, shattering all three of them at once. Sabine's spell on the slaver mage expired then, setting the man free. With all the henchmen dealt with, however, he stood little chance against Carver's quick blow that brought with it a swift death. They continued this way, turning the mansion upside-down and littering its floors with bodies.

"Maker's breath, Hawke," Varric said astonished. "You  _do_  get results!" He shook his head in disbelief at the ruin they left in their wake. "Messing with us is suicidal," he concluded chuckling.

"Tell me about it," Anders whistled at the bloody sight. "Wouldn't have expected this from anyone other than a Warden. Poor sods didn't stand a chance. Are you always like this, Hawke? Send a lightning bolt up someone's arse first, then ask questions?"

"When it comes to slavers, pretty much," came the quiet reply as she stood bent over Carver's injured arm. Anders drew closer, watching her close the gash with a flow of warm light. Moments later, all that remained was a thin pink scar.

"I am superfluous, aren't I? You are a healer," he observed squatting beside her.

"With a few tricks up my sleeve," she smiled wickedly. "I like to improvise, twisting and combining magic. My father didn't approve of my experimenting too much - "

"Especially since most of the time it was on me," Carver interrupted scowling.

"That is one reason why he forced healing onto me," Sabine laughed. "So I could undo the damage." She messed her brother's hair and made her way to the one remaining unopened chest in the building.

"Raven feathers?" she exclaimed holding up a handful of them. "Why in the Void would anyone keep such stuff under lock and key? This is garbage!" Her gaze travelled from the feathers to Ander's pauldrons. It was only then she realized they were decked in raven feathers. It was all she could do to keep her face straight while offering them to the healer, who refused indignantly. Carver burst out laughing, shamelessly enjoying the former Warden's embarrassment.

"Got it," Sabine finally said after digging in the chest for a long time. She unfolded the large document she retrieved and quickly read through it. "He left mother everything," she said nonplussed. "Everything, Carver. Coin, holdings, and this estate. Gamlen got a stipend. I cannot believe it, how could he have squandered it all? This was our birthright! Mother must know of this."

"Weeding out slavers, was it?" Anders chided, but refrained from making any further comments once Varric tugged at his coat and shook his head sharply.


	3. An Unexpected Passenger

**"This ludicrously huge and heavy book - more a compilation of volumes in a single binding than anything else - claims to be an extensive manual on the "fine art of adventuring". Its many chapters include: [...] Don't Put Your Hand in That Dark Hole." (IWD 2)**

It had been a long day at the clinic, the line of desperate people seeking his aid seemingly unending. The sun had already set when the last of them filed out, and Anders was glad to see their back. He went over his stock of potions and poultices, noting the ingredients and supplies he was running out of. He stopped suddenly, staring at his scribbling.

"Hawke," he murmured dumbfounded, the name a squiggle in his writing. He crossed it out annoyed. Why come unbidden to his thoughts? She was nothing to him. Except... it had felt good to finally  _do_  something. The idea of this clinic was all very noble, but he had gotten tired of the sick and the needy. Throwing lightning bolts at fools felt so much more rewarding.

"She is nothing to me," he muttered, dragging his thoughts back to the materials list.  _Nothing but trouble._  There he was, all settled in Darktown, doing some measure of good, and in walks trouble, and drags him along the way. He chuckled, remembering another friend that had done the same.

"She is nothing to me," he repeated stubbornly. But then, why had his heart leapt at the sight of her a few days ago? No, he didn't want to let his thoughts wander down that path. Besides, she was obviously wary of him, and he was not exactly comfortable around her either. She smiled readily enough and was mostly good-humoured. However, beneath her sarcasm Anders sensed lay something hard and unyielding. It chilled his heart to even think of it. Sighing, he turned to his supplies, and nearly jumped when he saw someone standing in the door.

"Andraste's holy knickers!" Anders cried. "Didn't your mother teach you to knock?"

Hawke cocked a brow, and clucked her tongue. "I  _did_  knock."

She looked much the same as the night they tried to rescue Karl: decked in black leather from head to toe, with a surprising assortment of daggers about her person. Presently she also carried a quiver of arrows and a fairly good quality longbow strapped across her back. Her hand rested on the massive shoulder blades of that beast of a hound she called "Toby". It reached all the way to her hips.

"Taking on a band of mercenaries all by yourself? You look like a walking armoury," Anders said gesturing at her. She looked positively frightening standing there like a wraith. "Are you sure you need all that?"

"Oh? What would be more appropriate?" She returned laughing. "Skirts and a wooden staff that shoots off bolts of magical energy?"

"Skirts can be quite useful when one is in a hurry," he replied mischievously, then bit his tongue.  _Innuendos? Really? Idiot._  "Forgive me. That was inappropriate." She graced him with an amused look.

"It was," Hawke agreed. "Perhaps you can give it another try when you know me better," she suggested, her lips twitching up. "Or are you always this bad?"

"I, um – ah –"

"Always this bad then," she concluded, placing the parcel she was carrying on his table and making herself comfortable.

"To what do I owe this pleasure then?" Anders finally recovered his voice. "Here to check on the abomination? Ensure that the people of Kirkwall are safe from this threat?"

This was met with a mirthless chuckle, and a shake of the head. "Maker preserve us from the day the people of Kirkwall will rely on me for their safety."

"Why would you say something like that?" Anders asked taken aback by the bitter edge of her voice.

"This city turned me into a mercenary," she replied, her features hardening. "It taught me just how good I was at killing people, a lesson I am not grateful for. Besides," she softened her tone, "if history teaches anything, it is that relying on mercenaries for protection is unwise. Loyalty bought with coin is no loyalty at all."

"Spoken like a true scholar," Anders observed warily. "So, you actually know how to use all of those sharp things?" he asked gesturing at her weapons.

"I was told the pointy ends are to be directed at the soft parts of the enemy," she smirked. "I don't claim to be an expert. Necessity is a good teacher, however. Since I cannot openly use my talents to protect my family, I had to find other means. My brother is the true weapons master, however."

"Yes, he does wield a rather  _large_  sword. Overcompensating perhaps? Anyway, if that doesn't scare the piss out of people, his perpetual scowl will do the trick," Anders said and immediately regretted it. Based on her withering look, Big Sister did not appreciate someone taking a jab at Little Hawke. He cleared his throat rather embarrassed. "You were not quite as heavily armed last time I saw you."

"Well, perhaps I  _did_  have to face an entire band of mercenaries today," she replied tartly. She looked away briefly, then brought a smile back to her face and opened up the parcel. In it Anders saw rye bread, cheese, ham, tomatoes, and a bottle of wine. "I wanted to thank you for your help the other night," she said, pushing the wine bottle his way. She then fumbled around her belt, and produced a small pouch which she also placed on the table. "And this is your share of the loot."

Anders stared at her utterly baffled. "You didn't have to," he mumbled.

"Of course I did," she replied matter-of-factly. "I always pay my debts."

"Thank you," he said nonplussed. "I can't drink," he added lamely after a pause. "Justice won't let me get drunk."

"Goodness, man," she laughed, flashing a perfect set of teeth. "I am not here to get you drunk. I will share a glass with you, though. Surely, that extra passenger in your head will not mind a single glass of wine?"

A few moments of panicked searching produced two clean cups. Relieved, Anders poured some of the vintage for the both of them and helped himself to the food. It was only then that he realized just how hungry he was. He hadn't had anything to eat since breakfast. He picked up his cup of wine and carefully took a sip. Something inside him was deeply revolted at the idea of alcohol and inebriation, but it still felt good to have the liquid run down his throat. It was not particularly flavourful, but it worked well with the rest of the food, and he downed his fill quickly.

"Well, it seems I hit the mark with my meagre offering," Hawke observed chuckling. "You have quite the appetite, Anders."

"’Tis a Warden thing," he replied between mouthfuls of cheese. "Something about the taint gives us all a voracious appetite." He continued sampling the food quietly, doing his best to avoid her intent gaze. She was beginning to make him nervous, and he could not help but feel that he was being assessed.  _Maker's breath, those eyes were positively glacial!_

"Well, I should probably go," Hawke rose and her mabari was quick to follow.

"Thank you for stopping by, Hawke," Anders said, noting that she hadn't taken more than a sip of the wine. She was barely out the door, when he chased after her, berating himself on forgetting his manners. "Hawke, wait." She looked at him quizzically. "It is not safe for a lady to be travelling alone at this time of night."

She flashed that perfect smile of hers again, "Lucky for me, I am no lady, Anders. But I thank you for your concern."

"Let me accompany you," he insisted. "I would hate myself if something happened to you."

"And who will accompany  _you_  back?" She asked cocking a brow.

"Oh, very funny, little girl," Anders chided. "Though I might not go to their picnics and reunions any longer, I am still a Grey Warden. Street thugs do not concern me. I have faced far worse."

"What makes you think I haven't?" she asked quietly. Without waiting for an answer, Hawke issued a short whistle, and the mabari dashed ahead. "Goodnight, Anders." She stopped after a few steps however, and turned to him hesitantly. "How would you feel about getting out of this city for a few days? Get some fresh air, and sunshine."

"What do you have in mind, Hawke?" Anders asked doubtfully.

"I'm planning a trip to Sundermount," she said casually. "Should be fairly uneventful, I only need to deliver an item. What do you say? Can Darktown spare you for a little while?"

"I suppose I could do with a change of scenery," he replied.

"Great! Meet me at the Hanged Man one hour after sunrise. Don't worry about supplies, we got everything covered."

 

* * *

 

Sabine sat at her writing desk, pouring over her father's letters. Voices drifted in from the kitchen - her mother and Gamlen talking, and laughing for once. Carver was wrestling Toby, the hound barking happily from time to time. She had not told her brother, but among the items they had recovered during the raid on their old family estate was a bundle of letters addressed to Malcolm Hawke. The man who had written them went by the name of Tobrius, and being a mage, resided in Kirkwall's Gallows. It took Sabine a few days to work up the nerve to head for the Circle of Magi, and attempt to get in touch with Tobrius. She certainly had no desire to walk in the middle of Templar domain, but felt it important to learn more about her father's friend.

She had kept Toby close as she made quiet inquiries within the Gallows courtyard, where the Tranquils sold their wares. Fortunately, the Templars did not even bother to give her a second glance once the longbow on her back and the daggers at her belt registered. Even so, the idea of her being locked up in the Gallows - for the Circle of Magi in the city was little more than a prison - haunted her thoughts, and she had to struggle to maintain her composure.

Tobrius handed her a second bundle of missives written in her father's hand. Presently, her fingers traced the words slowly, but their meaning failed to sink in. Instead, her soul was aching from the void her father's death had left in its wake. Aged nineteen, she became the one her family turned to, including her mother. It fell to Sabine to ensure the others lacked for nothing, and she soon learned that such responsibility had little tolerance for youth's folly. She matured quickly, her heart hardening in the process. What choice did she have but to take fate head-on? It didn't do to lay down and mourn the past as her mother had done.

"What are you studying there?" Carver interrupted her reverie, promptly snatching the letter from her hand. "This is father's writing," he exclaimed taken aback. "Where did you get this?" He never gave Sabine a chance to answer, but went on reading it. " _For the kindness you have rendered, I shall honour you forever more, Ser Maurevar Carver._ " Her brother looked up puzzled. "Carver?!"

"That was the Templar that helped father escape the Circle," Sabine explained.

"I was named after a  _Templar_?" Carver cried outraged. "When did we ever come across one that wasn't a zealot?"

"Well, apparently not all of them are," Sabine offered. "This one in particular had earned father's trust and respect - so much so that one of his children now bears the man's name."

"This is great," Carver complained. "One more thing to cast a shadow over me. As if Mother's constant pining over the Amell's lost glory wasn't enough, now I have a  _Templar_  with a heart of  _gold_  to contend with."

"Carver, what in the Void are you getting at?" Sabine asked perplexed.

"Do you realize that Mother has gotten worse since you have shown her the will?" He asked accusingly. "Now, she actually  _believes_  she can reclaim the estate! And, as the good daughter that you are, I am sure you will bust your arse trying to get it. And once you do, what are we going to do? Sit in a great big hall, telling each other how grand we are?"

"Oh, I see," Sabine smiled mirthlessly. "This is a pissing game."

"Go ahead, make this into a joke, as you do with everything else," Carver shot back. "I am sure Bethany is laughing herself dead over this. Wait. She can't! She is already dead! And why? Because she stepped out of Big Sister's big fat shadow!"

Sabine went very still. "How dare you drag Bethany into this?" She hissed menacingly.

"I - forgive me," Carver looked as if she had slapped him. "I do not know what has gotten into me all of a sudden. It's just... Mother... All I ever hear from her is 'My little girl' this and 'My little girl' that, and 'always do as your sister says', and 'we are Amells, we will show everyone the honour of that name'. But, Sabine, I do not want to show anyone the honour of carrying that name. And... I do not want to follow you in the endeavour to reclaim our nobility. I must find my own place in this world. I am sorry."

"Carver, I will do everything I can to make Mother happy," Sabine said. "Meanwhile you should not take things to heart so much. Let her dream of her family, if it gives her comfort. Remember that you are a Hawke, and that you owe nothing to the Amell name."

"So you would let me leave after the Deep Roads to find my own way?" Carver asked quietly.

"Let you?" Sabine asked surprised. "Carver I am not the one holding you back... y _ou_  are."

 

* * *

 

"Sabine, your eyes are glowing," Carver chided as yet another arrow hit the tree trunk Hawke had chosen to practice on.

She lowered the bow and glowered at her brother, "I don't even have strength enough to draw this bloody thing properly without magic." Anders had to admit that being flustered made her look adorable. She was softer around her brother, though the healer still felt intimidated by her.

"It will take time, just as it took a while before you learned how to handle the daggers," Carver sighed.

"Bugger that," Sabine snapped. "I've been practicing for a year with those damned things, and I still cut myself unless I use magic." She huffed annoyed.

"At least  _try_ ," Carver pushed her. "One arrow. Come on, Sabine,  _one arrow_!"

"Fine!" She shot back angrily, and drew quickly. To everyone's amusement, the arrow fell harmlessly to the ground, and Hawke dropped the bow crying out in pain and sucking at her fingers. "There! Happy now?" Carver was too busy doubling over, and shaking with laughter to answer.

"Blondie, did they teach you that kind of magic back in the Ferelden Circle?" Varric asked curiously.

"Nah," Anders sniggered. "We got to learn the good stuff: fireballs, lightning bolts... Of course, casting fancy spells outside the Circle is a quick way to the hangman's noose." He watched Sabine loosen another arrow, her eyes ablaze with blue. This time, it hit the mark. "You should teach me how to do that," he called out to her.

She leaned on the bow, and considered him for a few moments. "Only if you agree to give it a try first without magic," she grinned wickedly.

"Now, why would you want to subject me to ridicule?" Anders asked innocently.

"You laughed harder than my brother," she replied tartly.

With the worst of the heat gone, they broke up camp and continued their way up to Sundermount. Anders was apprehensive about their destination, however: a Dalish clan settled in the mountains. He recalled Velanna all too vividly, with her fierceness and unyielding nature.

Presently, the siblings walked ahead, with their mabari running to and fro, while Anders and Varric lagged behind. He found the dwarf's company amusing. Varric was open-minded and did not seem to fear him, despite what he had witnessed in the Chantry. When Anders inquired about his attitude, the dwarf merely shrugged and said he had other things to worry him more than an abomination: the Merchant's Guild. "Dwarves are not immune to magic," Anders warned then, only to have Varric point at his crossbow and say that Bianca was  _very_  fast.

They made good progress until the evening, when they set up camp in a clearing just off the mountain path they had taken. Anders drew the first watch, and while the others huddled beneath their cloaks to sleep, he set down enough wards to trap a pack of wolves. The hours passed without incident, and he was ready to fall asleep on the moss-covered rock he was sitting on when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He whirled around instinctively, and wrestled the intruder to the ground.

"Maker's breath, Anders, you're crushing me," Hawke complained breathlessly. He jumped up as if set on fire, and then helped Hawke to her feet, all the while apologizing.

"Are you always this jumpy?" She asked, shaking twigs and compost out of her clothes.

"No, it's just that I haven't been touched by anyone in a long time."  _That came out so very wrong._  Hawke snorted, then covered her mouth as she sat down on the ground, banging her fist against her knee.

"Anders, you are killing me," she finally said, struggling to reign in her fit of laughter. She wiped at her eyes, still chuckling. "And here I thought abominations were gruesome, not awkward."

"I am  _not_  - "

"An abomination. Right," Hawke cut in, smiling. "My father taught me that an abomination was a soulless creature that couldn't be reasoned with." She studied him, and Anders wondered what she could possibly see in the pale moonlight. "May you always make me laugh like this, for as long as you do, I shall know you are still yourself." She finally got to her feet, and patted him on the shoulder. "Go get some sleep. My turn to watch now."

They reached the Dalish camp the following day. The Elves were reluctant to let them pass, but then admitted that their Keeper had been expecting someone, and finally agreed that it had to be the  _Shem_.

"I made a promise to pass this amulet to you, Keeper Marethari," Hawke said taking off the pendant around her neck.

"And how is it that such a task fell to you, child?" The elderly Elven woman asked.

"The owner of this pendant saved my life and that of my family," Hawke replied. "In return for this favour, she asked I pass it on to  _you_. I think it protected me thus far. I hope it will keep you safe as well."

The Keeper expressed her gratitude, however pointed out that the task was not yet done. She instructed them to go to the summit of Sundermount and perform a ritual on the amulet. "Do this task, and your debt to Asha'bellanar will be paid in full."

"What does this ritual involve, Keeper?" Hawke asked uncertainly.

"My First, Merril, will perform it," Marethari replied. "All you need to do is accompany her. I would also ask you to take Merril with you back to Kirkwall, once you are finished."

Hawke did not look pleased at all, but agreed to take the Elven girl to the city. They were instructed on her whereabouts and as they approached the distant figure, Anders could not help but think of Velanna again. "In my experience," he piped up, "all Dalish women are crazy."

"Oh? And how many do you number among your acquaintance, pray tell?" Hawke drawled over her shoulder.

"One," Anders replied lamely.

"Well, I am glad to see you do not let a single bad experience colour your views," she observed smirking.

As it turned out, Merril was not at all like Velanna. But then again, how many people would open up a conversation with a fireball? The young Elven girl was quite shy and rather awkward, mumbling her way through the introductions and warnings on what lay ahead. Anders was very much inclined to like her, up until she made a cut in her palm and used blood magic to break down a barrier standing in their way.

"A summoning? Are you crazy?" He erupted outraged.

"The spirit helped us!" She protested.

"Yes, creatures of the Fade are very helpful," Hawke chimed in. "Up until they take over your mind and turn you into a monster."

"Do not be so quick to judge," Merril retorted. "There is nothing inherently evil about blood magic. It is just another form of magic. There are risks, yes, but I know what I am doing."

"Why do I have the feeling every blood mage starts out like that?" Hawke sighed, though Anders did not miss the dangerous edge to her voice. "Let us move on swiftly, before someone will suffer a tragic accident and plummet to their death." Merril shot her a hateful look, but held her tongue.

They were nearing the summit, when Merril stopped them in their tracks, warning them about the ancient burial grounds they had to cross before reaching the altar where the ritual had to be performed. Apparently, eternal rest was not quite as peaceful as one would hope.

They watched their every step, moving silently past the graves when the earth started shaking and deep cracks broke up the ground. Bony hands emerged from every single crevice, clawing their way to the surface, until the small band found itself surrounded by walking corpses.

Carver was the first to react, barrelling into the nearest clump of clumsy creatures, while Hawke sent a pulse through the air, sending the skeletal structures surrounding her flying in every direction. She then brought down a heavy barrage of lightning bolts, quickly filling the air with smoke. Anders tried his best to peer through the thick of it, and sent up a wall of ice as he saw three shadows closing in on him. He then gestured at the air, willing it to grow thicker around the trapped creatures, until it became a crushing prison and shattered its captives. There was no respite for him, however, as more shadows closed in on him. He backed up hurriedly, all the while muttering an incantation. He never managed to finish it, as he bumped into  _something_. It seemed no more than a pile of rags, until two claw-like hands grabbed him and lifted him off the ground. His eyes widened in horror as he realized it was a -

"Revenant!" Anders shouted at the top of his lungs. That was immediately followed by a cry of pain, as he felt his ribcage caving in. Barely holding on to consciousness, he considered setting the creature ablaze, but doubted that would induce it to release him from its clutches. It was so difficult to focus. The pain was too great. He could not even heal himself. The world was spinning, when the Revenant suddenly dropped him, its attention caught by something else. Screeching, the creature lumbered towards Carver, who was charging ahead in a frenzy.

They were meant to clash, but never did, as a giant rock appeared out of nowhere and smashed into the Revenant, pinning it against the sheer cliffs of the mountain. Surprisingly, that was not enough to stop the creature, as it soon emerged from beneath the rubble. By that time, however, Carver had already closed the gap between them, and with one swift motion, lopped off its skeletal head.

"Anders, look at me!" Hawke's voice sounded distant. His head was spinning, and the coppery taste of blood filled his mouth. "Stay with me!"  _Where was Justice?_  Someone was fumbling with his coat and shirt, and then the world around him exploded with pain. Someone was howling in agony around him.  _Is that me? Sweet Andraste, this hurts so badly._  He felt every single bone in his chest realigning, and then his body grew warmer and warmer, until he wanted to jump out of his skin. Then, with a blinding flash of light, the pain was gone, and he could breathe again.

"Hawke?" Anders wheezed. He opened his eyes, and saw her face looming above, concern etched in every feature.  _Maker's breath, she's beautiful._  She forced a small smile, and his throat constricted as he suddenly realized she held one hand on his chest and the other cradling his head, with fingers rooted in his hair. He got up laboriously with her help, and looked sheepishly at the others who did not appear to even have a scratch on them. "A fairly uneventful trip, huh?" He admonished, smiling weakly.

With the dead once again restored to eternal rest, Merril proceeded with the ritual, her sing-song words filling the air. Soon, light started swirling out of the amulet, and took on the shape of a -  _Woman?_

Merril bowed in respect, and greeted the witch the Dalish called Asha'bellanar.

"One of the people," the witch drawled. "So young, and so bright. Tell me, child, do you know anything else about me other than that title?"

"Only a little," Merril admitted, bowing even deeper.

"Then stand," Asha'bellanar urged her. "The people are too quick to bend their knee." She turned to the rest of the party. "Ah, and here we are," she purred, her golden eyes taking them all in. Her white hair flowed long and thick to the small of her back, and her light armour glinted in the sun. "So refreshing to find someone who keeps their end of a bargain."

"I always pay my debts," Hawke replied. "Though telling me that you were in that amulet would have been greatly appreciated."

"Just a piece, a small piece," the elderly woman noted.

"What are you?" Anders couldn't stop himself from asking. "A spirit? A demon?"

"And you would know of such things?" She asked amused.

"Of course I would!" He burst out. "I am a mage."

She threw her head back and laughed with gusto. "So sure of yourself, child. So naive."

"Why did you need someone else to bring you this far?" Hawke asked into the silence that ensued.

"Because I had an appointment to keep," the witch replied. "And because I needed to remain hidden, once the inevitable happened. You smuggled me here quite nicely," she smiled icily. "If I know my Morrigan, the unthinkable has already passed."

" _Your_  Morrigan?" Hawke wondered.

"Aye, a spirited child that thinks she knows what is what better than her mother or anyone else. And why not? After all, I  _did_  raise her to be such. Anything less would be disappointing," the witch concluded chuckling.

"I am not sure whether she is your daughter or your enemy," Hawke observed frowning.

"Neither is she," the witch allowed.

Hawke sighed. "I take it you have plans?"

"Destiny awaits us both, child," the woman replied. "Before I go, a word of advice? The world stands on the precipice of change, terrified of the inevitable plummet into the abyss. Watch for that moment, and when it comes, do not hesitate to leap. It is only then that you will learn whether you can fly."

"Cheap advice from a dragon," Hawke countered tartly.

"We all have our challenges," Asha'bellanar admitted.

"Are we going to regret bringing her here?" Carver piped up, fully drawing that concentrated golden gaze upon him.

"Regret is something I know all too well," the witch replied, a bitter edge to her voice. "Take care not to hold it too close to your heart, such that it poisons your soul. When the time comes for  _your_  regrets," she said, pointing at Hawke, "remember me." She then turned to Merril, who caught herself halfway through a bow once again. "And you child, take care. No path is darker than the one you walk on with your eyes shut." The Elf thanked her reverently. The witch offered Hawke one last smile, before heading for the edge of the cliff, her body engulfed in light. Moments later they were all thrown to the ground, as a dragon took flight from where Asha'bellanar stood before.


	4. Friends?

**"Surrender. Or don't. That would be more fun." (ME)**

 

The Hightown market was the usual beehive at midday, with fat nobles hiding behind the silk curtains of their colourful palanquins, horsemen making as little progress as pedestrians did... and guardsmen. Everywhere Sabine turned her gaze, she was sure to find at least three of them clustered. She pushed her way through the throng of people with Toby on her heels until she reached a quiet alley. Far ahead she could see the massive stairs leading up to the Chantry. And there, just by the Chanters' Board stood two Templars.

"You know, in Tevinter the Chantry takes a levy for every slave that is traded," Fenris observed as he caught up with her. She studied him for a few moments, wondering at the horrors the Elf had endured in the realm where mages were free.

"Whether here or Tevinter, the Chantry never misses an opportunity to rob you blind," she replied, drawing a sharp look from Fenris. "Here the clerics won't marry or burry you unless you pay a yearly fife," she explained ruefully. Well, at least Varric and Isabela were chuckling in the background.

They were about to cross the square when a young woman grabbed Sabine's cloak.

"Please, Serrah, help me! My brother has been missing for over a month now," she cried desperately.

"Calm down, lady," Sabine urged. "Have you taken the matter up with the Guard?"

"How could I? Kevan is a Templar recruit! Oh, I told him not to join the Order," she rambled on oblivious to Sabine's growing unease. "But he is such a devout young man, he wouldn't hear it. I have never seen him happier than the day he was accepted among their ranks. And he is such a good brother, he sends me notes almost every day, but now they have stopped, and my own letters have gone unanswered."

"Forgive me, dear, but you would have to take the matter up with the Order," Sabine suggested, vainly trying to free herself from the woman's clutches.

"They threw me out of the Gallows when I went to ask about Kevan," she cried. "Please, you look like capable people," she looked nervously at Fenris' markings. "I fear for my brother's life! Maker knows what the Knight-Commander has done to him!"

"Why would you think she would do any harm to a recruit of all things?" Anders piped up.

"You hear such dark rumours about Knight-Commander Meredith," she hissed, her eyes wide with terror. "It is dangerous to even speak of such things! Please, all I ask is that you talk to his friends, Hugh and Wilmod, should you find yourself in the Gallows!"

Sabine finally managed to pry the woman's hands off her cloak. "If I will be in the Gallows, I will look for these friends of your brother's," she consented, thinking that the chances of her stepping another foot in there were close to nil.

"Thank you, Messere," the woman broke out relieved. "My name is Macha. May the Maker watch over you and protect you in this endeavour."

"You are not seriously contemplating a trip to the Gallows?" Carver asked when they were out of earshot.

"I would rather let all the male patrons of the Hanged Man do body shots off of me," Sabine declared tartly.

"I'd pay to see that," Anders and Isabela announced in unison, startling each other in the process.

The sweet smell of incense that greeted her inside the Chantry was heavy enough to make her stomach roil. Even if she had not been a mage, this would have been a place she'd have avoided like a leper colony. She felt a massive head ache coming on, and the chanting of the Sisters was anything but soothing. The sooner she would be out, the better. The man she was looking for was kneeling by a mass of candles big enough to roast an ox over. At least that was Sabine's guess.

"Prince Vael of Starkhaven?" She asked tentatively. The man stiffened at the sound of his name, then straightened and turned to look upon her. The thought that he was rather handsome was quickly followed by yet another mental note to make her way to the Rose. Being driven to distraction by a man simply would not do. "Your family can rest now. Their killers are gone."

As they left the Chantry, Sabine could not help but do some arithmetic. Though Prince Vael's generous reward brought them significantly closer to the fifty sovereigns they needed, it was not nearly enough. She had to find more jobs to do.

"I have never seen anyone holding such a heavy bag of coins and wearing such a glum look," Varric observed. "Why the long face, Hawke?"

"Not quite there yet," she replied frustrated. "Any suggestions on getting more coin?"

 

* * *

 

Sabine gratefully sank into one of the chairs around Varric's table and placed her head on her arms. "Unless the place is burning down around me, don't bother waking me," she mumbled.

"Wouldn't your bed be more comfortable?" Varric asked chuckling.

"It would, but that requires walking, which in turn requires effort, and right now I couldn't move a muscle if the world depended on it... Unless, of course you'd carry me home, Varric."

"Hawke, you'd be in danger of having your shapely bottom scraping up the dirt of Lowtown. I am rather close to the ground, you see."

"Thus, here I lay, and here I shall remain," Sabine drawled between yawns.

Magic brought on its own brand of fatigue, which drained the body in a way sustained physical exertion never could. Her eyes felt ready to pop out of her skull, and there were needles stabbing deep into her brain at regular intervals. She had gone all out, and had made the mistake of pushing past her limit. If only things had not gone so terribly wrong with the Winters.

Returning the Viscount's son turned out to be a bloodier affair than she had expected. True, Seneschal Bran had warned them of the Winters' involvement, but Sabine had hoped to snatch Seamus from them when they weren't looking. She broke their cover, however, when the mercenary leader threatened to do bodily harm to the young man. And now, the Winters were no more. The Viscount had been quite grateful, which made up for her present condition.

Sabine squeezed her eyes shut, and groaned inwardly as the needles punched through yet again. Of course, lyrium would have made it all go away. She only had one small vial left, however, which she intended to save for an emergency. No, the natural remedy would have to do: sleep. She was about to doze off, when Anders stormed in. He looked ready to chew rocks.

"Hawke, I've been looking everywhere for you."

 

* * *

 

"We have no time to waste on charity, so you might as well stuff it, mage," Carver snapped, his feet on the table.

"I know your priorities," Anders replied, struggling to contain his rising ire with the boy. He had been trying to enlist Hawke in the effort of finding young Feynriel before the Templars did. "I will make it worth your while."

"Oh, this I have to hear – "

"Carver, you presume too much," Hawke warned her brother, and promptly smacked him over the calves. "Feet off." Little Hawke threw a murderous glare at his sister, but complied. "You were saying, Anders."

"I want to bring Arianni's boy to safety, but I have to do it quickly, lest the Templars beat me to it. You are the most capable person I know." In the most horrifying way he could think of. He had only ever witnessed slaughter delivered so efficiently against Darkspawn. Thanks to Hawke, Flint Company was decimated. "I don't think I could do this without you. In return, I will aid you whenever you need me, no questions asked, and you may keep my share of the loot."

"I don't have anything urgent lined up for the next few days," Hawke mused. "It should be doable. We will discuss payment later."

"You have  _got_  to be kidding me," Carver moaned.

"That is quite enough out of you, brother," Hawke snapped. "You needn't come, if the prospect of helping find the Elven boy seems so onerous to you."

"Any leads, Blondie?" Varric asked. His habitually casual tone once again worked like a charm and visibly eased the tension between the Hawke siblings.

"Yes. The father entrusted the boy in the hands of an ex-Templar, Samson, who – in the absence of monetary inducement – then passed Feynriel along to some contacts at the docks. I went scouting. Turns out, those  _contacts_  are slavers. But I cannot take them on by myself."

"Wait a moment, you want our help right this instance, don't you?" Hawke asked, pinching her brow.

"Well, do you have anything better to do?"

 

* * *

 

As they were gearing up, Varric approached Sabine. "I thought you couldn't move a muscle if the world depended on it," he observed concerned. "You mentioned you were spent for the day."

"I have some lyrium left, Varric," she patted him on the shoulder. "It'll do the trick."

"Weren't you saving that for an emergency?"

"Someone's life is at stake," Sabine breathed. "It qualifies, don't you think? Besides, didn't you hear Anders just now? Aid and  _no questions asked_. What could be better than having a Warden help whenever we needed it?"

"This Warden comes with unwanted complications, in case you have forgotten," Varric warned.

"I think as long as we avoid Templars, we should be safe," Sabine countered smirking.

"Well, Bianca and I have your back."

"I know."

 

* * *

 

Sunrise over Sundermount was certainly a peaceful visage. Anders could not believe the events of the previous days. Not only was Feynriel safe with the Dalish, they had dealt a crippling blow to the slavers in Kirkwall. And it was all thanks to that slender figure sitting cross-legged on a great slab of rock overlooking the gorge below.

"Why did you not tell me you were spent before we started out on this endeavour?" Anders asked, plopping himself down next to Hawke.

"It was not something that could not be fixed with lyrium."

"Lyrium is addictive, Hawke," Anders cautioned.

"So I am told. It would have made no difference had I informed you."

"I am a healer, remember?" Anders chided. "You didn't need the lyrium."

Hawke turned her measuring gaze on him, then clucked her tongue. "That would have halved your strength, and only marginally restored any of mine. It was the best solution. Besides, it does not happen often that I revert to lyrium. Sleep is still my preferred remedy." Silence stretched between them for some moments, before she went on: "I do not accept your payment terms, Anders."

"You know very well I have few earthly possessions," he protested, ire starting to rise. "It is the best that I can offer. Wasn't the loot you got off those slavers enough to compensate for my meagre payment?"

Rather than answering, Hawke fumbled with her belt, until she produced a pouch. She studied it for a moment, before holding it out for Anders. "I cannot promise you that I will lend a hand every time you will want to smuggle a mage out of the city," she began, fatigue still obvious in her voice. "But I could never ask for coin from you."

"I do not know what to say, Hawke," Anders murmured, taking the pouch hesitantly. "You are not what I thought."

"In that case I will not spoil the moment and inquire about your previous impression of me," she chuckled. "There is one thing I would ask, if you are willing."

"Are you going to make me eat my own words?"

"I hope not," she arched her brows amused. "Join me in the expedition. We would be safer with you around."

"Hawke, if I never see the blighted Deep Roads again it will be too soon," Anders breathed.

"Then, at least help me prepare," she pleaded. "Carver and I have both fought darkspawn before, but being in their domain is another matter. Any information on what awaits us there would be appreciated."

Anders worked his jaw for a while.  _Nothing but trouble. But could things be any different with a pretty face?_  "No, I don't think I want to talk about such things," he drawled, struggling to hide the amusement at her disappointed face. "I would rather just tag along. You see, I hate talking about the Deep Roads even more than I hate walking them." That earned him a quick punch in the shoulder, which he made quite a fuss over. Anything to see that smile...


	5. The Devil's Advocate

**"It's so much easier to see the world in black and white. But grey? I don't know what to do with grey..." (ME2)**

 

Returning the escaped mages of the Starkhaven circle to the Templars was definitely not the outcome Anders had hoped for when he had once again appealed to Hawke.

"I swear to you, I have had no truck with demons," their new leader pleaded. "We only want our freedom!"

"You swear it?" Hawke sneered. "And I suppose this," Hawke gestured at the blood-stained ground, "is all just a big misunderstanding. The raised corpses and summoned demons were in fact a welcoming committee."

"I tried to reason with him," the woman cried. "I told him you were not Templars. But it was too late. Decimus… he was no longer the man I had grown to love. He had become… twisted."

"Well, blood magic does present hazards," Hawke replied caustically. "Forgive me, but your word means little to me."

"Very well," the woman replied grudgingly. "We cannot hope to stand against you and your companions. However, if the Templars have remained ignorant of your talent thus far, it will no longer be the case once I shall be returned to them."

"By all means," Hawke purred and flashed a wicked smile. "I look forward to sharing a cell with you."

The prisoners filed by in sullen silence, led by Carver and Varric, with Fenris and Isabela bringing up the rear. Before Hawke could join the column, Anders quickly grabbed her sleeve.

"Sabine, please don't do this," he pleaded hoarsely.

"I thought you hated blood mages," she hissed back, her eyes filled with rage.

"We killed all the blood mages," Anders protested. "You are branding the others guilty by simple association."

Black mist shrouded her hands as she grabbed Anders' coat and pulled him close to her face. "Look at me! I am covered in blood from head to toe. My hair is all singed because a  _damned rage demon breathed on me_!" She abruptly let go and walked shakily towards the exit. "Maker only knows how I survived this," she muttered.

Anders stood dumbfounded. Hawke's self-possession had just... melted away. She was terrified. By the time he caught up to her, however, she seemed her usual self once again.

"This is wrong, Hawke," he pursued the matter doggedly. "This was frightening, I know -"

"That is putting it mildly," came the tart reply.

" – but we have dealt with those responsible. Those poor sods you are marching back to the Gallows did not raise a hand against us."

"Your poor sods asked us to kill Ser Thrask for them, though."

"Pardon me, but since when do  _you_  value a Templar's life?"

Hawke stopped in her tracks, and stood pinching her brow. "I value  _all_ life, Anders. You are a healer, for Andraste's sake, you ought to feel the same."

"Don't you think that statement is at odds with you being such an efficient killer?" He regretted the question as soon as it left his lips.

"I thought you were better than that," she said quietly, then hurried past him.

 

* * *

 

Anders' mind simmered with rage as he watched the Templars lead the Starkhaven mages away. Hateful thoughts flitted through his skull, all of them directed at Hawke. His skin felt like it was crawling with ants. Justice was fighting his way through. The surprising thing that kept Anders in control was his own guilt over offending Hawke.

"You did the right thing, Hawke." The deep voice jerked Anders out of his gloom. That mage-hating, rabid dog of an Elf had spoken, and what other words could he have expected from Fenris? Maker's breath, why did she permit that monster to lurk around her?

"What is truly right and who decides this?" Hawke asked quietly. "Had we been in Tevinter, I ought to have fallen on my knees before Decimus, in awe of his power."

"We are not in Tevinter," Fenris replied smoothly. "Today you are ensuring these blood mages will never have the opportunity to harm an innocent."

"Blood mages! Blood mages! You are a blind fool, Fenris," Anders cut in angrily. "Did you not see these people cowering against the walls of the cavern, frightened out of their wits?"

"And you think their fear stands proof for their innocence?" Fenris barked. "They could have just as easily been frightened of us, or feigned their fear. It would have been the logical thing to do."

"So, in your view, it is righteous to lock people up for things they  _might_  do?"

Both Hawke and Fenris studied him, the one calm and thoughtful, the other a portrait of disdain.

"I need a bath," came the unexpected follow-up. Without further ado, Hawke marched towards the shore. A sharp whistle sent the mabari bounding in its master's wake.

"You know, that is not a bad idea at all," Isabela sauntered away too.

"Well, that is one party we are not invited to," Varric observed chuckling.

It was late in the evening when Hawke and Isabela finally joined them at the Hanged Man. They had both changed into freshly laundered clothes. Hawke did not look worse for wear, though her hair was significantly shorter.

"Well, at least I still have my eyebrows," she replied as Varric remarked on the change in her appearance. "Have you ever seen a person with no eyebrows?" She shuddered dramatically. "Creepy."

The rest of the night was spent calling for one pitcher of dubious brew after the other, in boisterous laughter, and not one opportunity to exchange a single word with Hawke. Things got interesting when Isabela climbed onto the bar and started singing sailors' tunes, with the rest of the patrons joining in drunkenly. Then somehow she managed to convince Hawke to join her. Among the repertoire was "The Enchanter's staff has a knob on its end", "The Templar's pulsing poker", "The greying of the Warden" and "To dampen the Divine". The party was broken up abruptly when Isabela fell off the "stage" and pulled Hawke with her.

It was while Hawke nursed a bump on her head that he finally found an opportunity to talk to her. He could not explain it himself, but rather than starting with the apology he'd carefully crafted throughout the evening, Anders started haranguing her about sending the Starkhaven mages to the Gallows. The words just kept tumbling out of his mouth, until he forced his mouth shut and clenched his teeth.

"What do you expect me to say, Anders?" She asked irritated. "Who am I to change this world? I am a nobody. My family's fate and fortune is all I can do anything about."

"But how can you stand the injustice?" Anders flamed up. "Last year alone twelve mages were made tranquil, people who passed their Harrowing!"

"Including your friend," Hawke pointed out quietly. "Which doesn't make you impartial in the matter."

Andraste's flaming sword, she sided with the Chantry on this! How could she suggest that he was exaggerating, when so much evidence stood before her? When she had been forced to live a life on the run because of the blighted Templars?

"You know better than most just how thin the Veil is in Kirkwall," she continued. "All the death and suffering caused by the Tevinters -"

"Are you telling me that the Templars are justified in their treatment of the mages here in Kirkwall?" He interrupted lividly.

"That is not what I meant. But passing the Harrowing is no guarantee that a mage will  _never_  fall prey to a demon. Look, I don't think that the idea of Templars watching over mages was bad to begin with. Things took an unfortunate turn, but it doesn't mean that all Templars are abusers, nor that all mages are victims."

"Well, if you are so fond of the Circle, why don't you turn yourself in?" He snapped.

"Because I have my family to think of," she replied with a shrug. "I am responsible for their well-being." She then grabbed him by the shoulders and forced him to look upon her face.

"What have they done to you, Anders, that you bear such hatred in your heart?" she asked quietly, her brows furrowed. He took a step back, unable to utter a word. "You once said they harmed children," she went on gently.

"I do not wish to talk about it," he replied in a strangled voice, then worked his jaw painfully. How dare she ask such a question? How could he even speak of such things? Memories he had worked so hard to forget, but had failed time and again. Tell  _her_ how his innocence had been stolen brutally by Templars? The experience had driven him to seven escape attempts from the Circle back in Ferelden. And what did that avail him? An entire year of his life in solitary confinement. Share  _that_ with her? That he had barely clung to his sanity even before merging with Justice?

"I am sorry," Hawke murmured. "That was inappropriate."

"Tell me why you delivered the Starkhaven mages to the Templars?" he asked in a broken voice.

"I had to follow my conscience," came the soft reply. Anders opened and closed his mouth without making a sound. This had been dictated by her  _conscience_? What twisted conscience was it, that trusted rapists and abusers?

"Every fibre of my being told me those mages would do harm. I trust my instincts. 'Tis a lesson I learned the hard way," she concluded, holding him with sorrowful eyes for a few moments, before turning to leave.

Without realizing it, Anders quickly grabbed her hand before she could get away. "Hawke, wait."

"It is quite alright, Anders," she replied, gently disentangling her hand from his and walking off without another word.

 

* * *

 

Sabine hoped her trips to the Gallows would not grow into a habit. Or, that the Templars would not get any wiser. But that woman, Macha, had given her nightmares. Her frantic pleas for help to save her brother still rang in Sabine's ears. And on the off chance that something was rotten in the Order of Templars, she finally decided to investigate the matter. Some questioning finally put her on the heels of Knight-Captain Cullen.

She found the Templar on the outskirts of Kirkwall, badgering a young recruit. She quickly traced a glyph on her palm, and transferred it onto her chest. Suddenly, time slowed down. The Knight-Captain stood frozen, his sword raised threateningly, while the recruit, Wilmod, cowered before him. Sabine produced her daggers, and rushed to the pair of them before the spell expired.

"Don't you dare lay a hand on that boy," her voice came muffled through the veil hiding her face. The tip of the dagger she held against the Knight-Commander's throat drew blood.

"Fools," Wilmod began laughing manically, and stumbled away from them.

Sabine watched in horror as one of his arms constricted, then bulged and morphed into a claw. The rest of his body transformed similarly, new limbs bursting forth through skin. Worst of all, the proximity of the bloody Knight-Captain made it impossible to draw upon magic to augment her fighting skills. In a panic, she produced a grenade from one of the pouches hanging on her belt, and threw it at Wilmod's feet. Thick vines issued from where it had shattered, trapping the deformed recruit.

"Great, he brought friends," she muttered as two more Fade-spawn materialized out of nowhere. Two throwing knives sent in rapid succession, and one of the creatures collapsed gurgling to the ground. "Luckily, you bastards bleed just like everyone else in this plane of existence."

It was not long before Wilmod shed his restraints, and then moved towards the Knight-Captain. The second grenade she launched at Wilmod did not work out quite as well as the first one. It shattered with an unceremonious  _poof_ , and merely served to further enrage the creature. It also redirected its attention towards Sabine. It barely took a few steps before the Templar officer caught up. She had observed a number of excellent swordsmen. However, the Knight-Captain was sublime in his skill. In the span of three heartbeats Wilmod's head rolled off the shoulders. In another heartbeat, the knight stood in front of her, a picture of fury as he stripped the veil off Sabine's face.

"What in Andraste's name possessed you to interfere?" he thundered. "This is Templar business."

"Your recruits have families," Sabine replied, then moved to retrieve her knives from the creature she had slain. "A sister that gets worried when she fails to hear from her brother. Who gets desperate when inquiries of his whereabouts get her thrown out of the Gallows."

"Ah, you are referring to Kevan." The knight studied Sabine for a few uncomfortable moments before continuing. "Forgive me. I am Knight-Captain Cullen, and I am heading an investigation into the disappearances of some of our recruits." Apparently, a number of them had gone missing, and Wilmod was the first to return. His hasty and covert departure, however, roused Cullen's suspicions, and prompted the officer to follow the young man.

"I was led to believe that mages were the only ones susceptible to demonic possession," Sabine observed worriedly.

"It is possible to summon a demon into an unwilling host, which is what I think happened here today."

"So, this was not the result of some sort of dark ritual headed by Knight-Commander Meredith."

"What?" Cullen asked baffled. "That's preposterous! Who gave you that idea?"

"The recruits."

The officer pinched his brow saying, "Maker's breath, rumours and recruits are worse than a weaving circle." Kevan had been one of the most promising youths in the Knight-Captain's care, and he had helped with the investigation before going missing. "He was last seen in Wilmod's company, at the Blooming Rose. My inquiries at that establishment were fruitless, however. The – ah – ladies there were reluctant to aid me."

"I can't imagine why. The  _Templar's pulsing poker_  is very popular there." This drew a disapproving scowl from the officer. Sabine cleared her throat embarrassed, then went on, "Perhaps I could be of assistance."

 

* * *

 

The mother of all hangovers made Sabine even more irritated with the hostess of the Blooming Rose. The two of them were standing over Idunna's body, arguing over what had happened.

"Your  _Exotic Wonder of the East_  tried to compel me with blood magic," she growled. "I will not be toyed with." When the hostess started protesting the damage to both property and reputation, Sabine lost the shred of patience she had left. "One more word out of you," she spat through gritted teeth, "and I will make sure this place will be crawling with  _both_  Templars and City Guard." Drawing a calming breath, she resumed in a milder tone: "I am sure you know how to dispose of a body discreetly. No one will be the wiser."

How did it come to this? That morning she had set out to ask a few questions, not battle demons and blood mages. Sabine considered dumping all the evidence she had found in Idunna's quarters into the Templars' lap. It was unlikely, however, that the Order would move fast enough to save Kevan from Tarohne's clutches. It might not even move fast enough to disable the blood mage faction.

"Wait a minute, Sabine," Carver interrupted her arguments back at the Hanged Man. "You want to take on an entire pack of blood mages by yourself rather than let the Templars handle it?"

"Well, not by myself," she replied archly. "All of us, together."

"It is not worth the risk, sister."

"The Knight-Captain said the Order would be  _very_  grateful for my assistance. Come on, Carver, those buggers will never see us coming. If we leave it up to the Order, whatever recruits Tarohne's pack still has in its grip will be lost. I'd expect to see a higher collateral damage once the Templars will engage the blood mages, and there is a high chance of many of them actually escaping. So, who's with me?"

 

* * *

 

Anders woke with a start, a ball of flames dancing around his fingers. Someone was trying to break down his door.

"For the love of Andraste, Anders, wake up and open the bloody door!"

Was that Carver's voice? Letting go of the spell, he hastened to the door. He barely cracked it open, when Fenris pushed through, a cloaked figure cradled in his arms. Carver followed at a limp, supported between Merril and Isabela. Varric brought up the rear. That could only mean that Fenris was carrying... He undid the cloak wrapped around her in a frenzy. His breath caught when he saw the state she was in.

"What did this?" Hawke's right ear had nearly melted. The burn went down her neck, partially along her jaw, and disappeared beneath blackened clothes. Her left side was a different matter. All bruised and battered, her garments shredded and stained with blood.

"This," Carver said pointing to the burns, "was a rage demon. And this," he motioned at her broken shoulder, "blood mages."

"And you?" Anders asked, only now observing the red blooms on Carver's jerkin.

"Possessed Templars."

His questions would have to wait. For now, he gave hurried instructions to Merril on the various salves and concoctions needed to stabilize Hawke and her brother. Meanwhile, he busied himself with removing the damaged garments.

"I do not understand," Carver wheezed from a nearby cot. "Why won't you heal her? Why use herbs?"

"She is too weak for that, has lost too much blood," Anders replied, carefully peeling away her ruined clothes. "Forced healing might push her over the edge."

"But you were not in much better shape after the Revenant got to you," Carver persisted.

"I was not as close to death's door," Anders explained absentmindedly. "It  _was_  unpleasant, though."

"What about the boy you treated when we just met?" Little Hawke pursued stubbornly.

"You were not there from the beginning of the day to observe him," Anders replied irritated. "His treatment started as it will for your sister."

 

* * *

 

Sabine woke to a world of pain. It felt as if someone had flayed her alive and then fitted her with skin that was not quite her size. Needles were punching into her brain, and her throat was parched as if she hadn't had one glass of water for weeks.

"Water," she pleaded, or at least tried to. All she heard was wheezing sounds.

"Oh, my baby," her mother came into view. "My little girl," she cried, gently caressing her brow.

"Water," Sabine repeated, this time actually producing the word. Leandra called upon Anders for assistance.

She held on feebly to the healer, trying to pull him close. "Tell me that bitch is dead," she whispered hoarsely.

"Tarohne is gone, as are all of her followers," Anders replied.

"Carver?" she asked, furrowing her brow.

"Recovering."

Relieved, Sabine sank back onto her cot, taking a deep breath.

"Why did you not come to me for help?" Anders asked, his eyes boring into hers.

She chuckled mirthlessly, "I did not think you would want to have anything to do with the Chantry."

"I gave you my word, Sabine," he protested. "To help whenever you asked, no questions asked."

"I know," she replied, waving a hand before him. "But this would have been pushing it. I need you for the Deep Roads."

"I'll be there," he said and took her hand gingerly.

"Thank you, Anders," she smiled weakly. "For everything."


	6. The Knight-Commander Is Intrigued

**"What is it about you that makes people think we enjoy being in harm's way?" (ME)**

The dwarf sat impassively, his remarkable crossbow resting by his side. Cullen read through the missive a third time, his eyes lingering on the signature. It was different from the elegant flow of the rest of the message. It looked tremulous and spoke of weakness in the writer's hand.

"This is a grave matter you and your associates have resolved for us, Serah Tethras," he finally sighed. The recruits that had returned three days prior were still in shock, their testimonies muddled. The only thing they all agreed upon was Hawke's interference. "Though I wish Serah Hawke had come herself. You have been very helpful in complementing her message, but I still have some questions."

"May I remind you that I have been there in the melee with her?" Tethras put in gently. "Any questions you might have for Hawke, you can direct at me with confidence."

Cullen turned to the signature once again. "How bad was it?"

"We suffered a scratch or two," Tethras admitted.

" _A scratch or two_?" Cullen echoed hollowly. "Why am I getting the impression that is an understatement?"

"Nothing that Elfroot salves and a few bandages cannot take care of, Knight-Captain," the dwarf replied smoothly.

"I see." He studied the dwarf for a few moments before going on, "You have rendered the Order a great service. I shall see to a commensurate reward for your efforts." Cullen quickly scribbled a note, and dismissed Varric Tethras with instructions on reaching the Treasurer.

The name  _Hawke_  had been made known to him shortly before the incident with Wilmod. According to Ser Thrask, the safe retrieval of the Starkhaven mages was owed in great part to her actions. The knight described her as a compassionate individual, which was a surprising trait in a mercenary. Then there was Emeric. The mere thought of him gave Cullen a headache. That grizzled knight needed a hobby. Something that did not involve trips to the underbelly of Kirkwall. At least his "investigation" had been passed on to the City Guard, thanks to Hawke. And now she had broken up a cabal of blood mages and freed a handful of the Templar recruits that had been kidnapped. The rest had apparently suffered the same fate as Wilmod. Despite all of this, the Knight-Captain remained uneasy about the woman.

Cullen took up the message once again, his eyes flying directly to her signature. He wondered what a "scratch or two" meant. With a sigh, he began working on the report for the Knight-Commander.

 

* * *

 

Sabine clenched her teeth as her mother spread the salve over her too-tender skin. Taking the pain-numbing concoction Anders had given her would have eased the process, but she refused to have her senses dulled. She would have preferred to tend to her wounds herself, but Leandra had refused adamantly. She also refused access to the looking glass. Sabine would have given much to have spared her mother the sight of the wounds she had suffered.  _If wishes were fishes..._

The skin covering her right arm and shoulder was an angry pink for the most part, with rivulets of white scars running all along her limb. She supposed her neck looked similar. She had felt the awkward shape of her ear, but that was the extent of the damage done to her face, as far as she could tell. She mourned the loss of two molars more than the mangling of her ear, though. Chewing food was uncomfortable to say the least.

"Anders said the scars would fade with time," Leandra spoke as she scraped up more salve from a small, ceramic jar. "They will be barely noticeable. And you can always use your hair to cover your ear."

"Let's hope it will not drive away potential suitors," Sabine replied with a slur. Forced healing might have knitted her bones back together in short order, but the pain and the stiffness in her jaw lingered. She had to work very hard to form intelligible words.

"Well, you needn't worry about that before our claim is reviewed by the Viscount," her mother went on, ignorant of the dubious look on Sabine's face. "Once we restore our good name, it will be a different matter. You  _will_  exchange breeches for a skirt."

"You mean the Amell name?"

"Well, of course," Leandra replied happily. "It's who we are, after all."

Before she could reply, there was a soft rap on the door, and Anders let himself in. The healer planted himself before her, while her mother quietly left the room. Sabine turned to stare at the closing door.

"Afraid of being left alone with me?" the Warden asked wryly.

"Just surprised that  _my mother_  is not," she muttered. "Or perhaps she just went to retrieve her needlework. She'll be sitting in the corner, watching us between stitches."

"Curious thing to do for a mother, when her daughter admitted to not being a lady," Anders observed chuckling.

"Well, she doesn't know that," Sabine replied ruefully. "No need to enlighten her either," she warned.

"Mum's the word," Anders promised, a mischievous smile on his face. He then crossed his arms over his chest and harrumphed. "Your speech might be slurred, but your wits are as sharp as ever, Hawke. You did not take your medicine, did you?"

"The pain is manageable," she replied tartly. "I don't want –"

"Hawke," the healer chided.

"Look, I can bloody well tell whether I need medicine or not," she grumbled. "I know healing too, in case you have forgotten."

"Healers make bad patients," Anders sighed, "and you are the worst. Now, let me take a look at you." He gently tilted her head to examine her. "I am really sorry about your ear, Hawke," he murmured. "'Twas the best I could do."

"I know, Anders. Too bad about my earrings, though. I liked wearing them." She then turned a wicked grin on the healer. "Say,  _your_  ears are pierced."

"Don't go there, Hawke," Anders warned.

"But they'd look good on you," came the innocent protest.

"Which ones? The big brass hoops, or the silver chandeliers?"

"Why, both, of course," Sabine replied wryly.

"Ha, ha, very funny. Though I'd warn against teasing someone who could turn you into a toad. Now, flex your hand for me."

"Anders, you're no fun," she complained laughing. She submitted, however, struggling to maintain a smile with fire and ice running up her arm.

Sabine shrugged into her shirt and jerkin while Anders unnecessarily told her to work her hand on a regular basis to prevent the skin from losing its elasticity. The healer's words flowed into one as beads of sweat broke out all along her spine, Elfroot or no. She nearly bit through her tongue in an effort to keep herself from breaking down whimpering. Dressing left her hands shaking and clumsy.  _Why were there so many buttons?_

"Are you going to care for yourself as I asked, or are you going to brush my recommendations aside?" Anders asked, hands on hips.

"I'll do as you say,  _mother_ ," Sabine replied archly, and headed for the door.

"Where do you think you are going?"

"To the Hanged Man. I want to see if Varric returned from the Gallows."

With an exasperated sigh, Anders followed her out.

 

* * *

 

"Impressive," Knight-Commander Meredith murmured as she leafed through Cullen's report. She sat entrenched behind her heavy desk, appearing unusually small without her massive armour. Her heavy equipment adorned a stand, leaving the Commander with only the underpadding for protection. Not that she had anything to fear. This was her domain, after all. Cullen liked the Circle in Kirkwall much better than the one he had left behind in Ferelden. The Templars were clearly in charge here, the First Enchanter held firmly in Meredith's iron grip.

"And there is no evidence to suggest that Sabine Hawke is an apostate?" the Knight-Commander asked.

"None of the Order's eyes-and-ears could attest to that, Ser," Cullen replied. "As for myself, despite having observed her directly in combat, I could not detect any use of magic."

"What about your own eyes-and-ears, Captain?"

Cullen blinked confusedly for a few heartbeats. Officially, all observers worked for the Order. Having a private network of spies was frowned upon. To Cullen's dismay, however, most officers directed webs of their own. To maintain his status, the Captain found himself in the unpleasant position of adopting this tactic as well.

"They have nothing to report yet," he finally replied, clearing his throat.

"But you concluded that magic must have been used by someone in Hawke's party to quash the cabal," Meredith pursued. "Any thoughts on her companions?"

"On the surface," Cullen began tentatively, "there is little to distinguish her group from the average band of mercenaries. But, how many such groups associate with Grey Wardens? Especially when the Blight has been dealt with."

"So, you suspect the Grey Warden?" Meredith asked leaning forward.

"He is quite illusive," Cullen shook his head. "I have no information on him whatsoever. I could not even tell you where he resided. Either he is very good at hiding, or he is being protected. The recruits that Hawke had saved were unable to offer any further insight. Apparently, he was not there the night the cabal of blood mages was destroyed."

"Who else, then?"

"If I had to guess, I would say it was one of the Elves," Cullen mused. "One of them has ties to the Imperium. The other is Dalish." He made a frustrated sound. "Hawke leaves no survivors. No witnesses to her group's doings."

"What about the Starkhaven mages?"

Cullen frowned, "Ser Thrask did not report anything unusual. They came in peacefully."

"Ser Thrask - a good man," Meredith observed. "Did you know his daughter was a mage?"

Cullen shot the Knight-Commander a stunned look.  _Ah, that explains his sympathy for them._

"You did a good job, Captain," Meredith rose from behind her desk. "I'd suggest you keep an eye on Hawke and her companions. Keep me informed on your progress."

 

* * *

 

"What in the Abyss possessed you to do such a thing?" Anders roared, his glower promptly sending Merril into cover behind Sabine. What was left of the Tal-Vashoth Saarebas clung in a gory mess to Carver's body. The boy looked dazed while Anders examined him for wounds.

"I willed his blood to boil over," Merril cried from the safety of her cover.

"You mean you have used blood magic," the healer sneered.

"That Qunari mage would have killed Carver!" Merril protested, abandoning her refuge and facing her accuser. If a thimble of an Elf could ever look menacing, this would have been it.

"That is enough, you two," Sabine growled. "She just saved my brother's life. It might have given him a shock, but I am sure he will recover momentarily."

"I'd like to see  _your_  reaction to having a Qunari wrapped around you like a bloody blanket," Carver snapped.

"See? He's fine. As for you Merril," Sabine said turning to the Elf, her mouth set in a tight line. "There were other ways to make the Qunari's end permanent." She then filed past Merril, paying no heed to her protests.

It had been a long day, filled with nothing but gore and death. However, at the end of it lay a significant amount of sovereigns – sorely needed for the Deep Roads. As such, Sabine did not allow herself to be bothered by the mass of bodies left behind. Javaris Tintop would be waiting for them at the Hanged Man, where he had taken lodgings while in the city. Whether the Qunari in Kirkwall would be willing to trade their precious incendiary black powder to the dwarf was anybody's guess. Sabine gave a mental shrug. This was none of her concern, really. Her contract was with Tintop, not the Qunari.

 

* * *

 

"Your hated Tal-Vashoth have been felled, one and all," Javaris Tintop addressed an expressionless Arishok. "We are ready to open negotiations on the explosive powder, as we agreed."

The Qunari leader seemed unimpressed, however. Sabine had rarely heard a more emphatic refusal, nor one as short. At Tintop's urging, Fenris intervened, asking the Qunari for clarification.

"The agreement was imagined."

The dwarf had calculated that he could ingratiate himself to the Arishok by dealing with the troublesome outcasts. In return, he had hoped to gain access to the Qunari explosive powder. Apparently, these strange people cared little for the favour thus rendered. From what she had managed to glean about the Qunari, Sabine also surmised that they would have been more than capable of handling the Tal-Vashoth themselves, had they the inclination to do so. Presently, Tintop found himself in a rather embarrassing position. Sabine did not intend to ease the situation for him, however.

"The Arishok might owe you nothing, dwarf," she growled, "but you owe  _me_  for rendering the service you have hired me for."

"What? You have spent too much time in the sun, Hawke, if you think you are getting anything out of me," Tintop retorted. "No black powder, no payment. You sodding bunch of dog lords proved useless."

"This vashedan will pay his debt," the Arishok spoke, and as one, his guards moved in on Tintop. They did not have to take too many steps before the dwarf grudgingly threw a bag of coins at Sabine, and promptly left the compound uttering a colourful string of curses.

"You too will leave, human," the Arishok demanded. Sabine bowed and obeyed without question. A smile slowly brightened her face. She had done it! She had all the funds for the Deep Roads!

 

* * *

 

Petrice knelt in prayer before the statue of Holy Andraste. She begged for guidance to cleanse the city of the corruption brought on by the Qunari. The heathens had gathered too much influence over the previous year, and many turned away from the truth of Andraste's teachings, and thus away from the Maker. This could not continue. But she faced an impasse, and knew not how to move forward. She heard the rustle of armour, and a man joined her before the Prophetess.

"I have a name for you, Sister," the man's voice came softly. "Hawke."

Petrice smiled, and thanked Andraste for showing her the way. And for putting Varnell in her path.


	7. Fleeing the Qun?

**"You do not know the indignity of being compelled to save something you do not believe can – or should – be saved." (KotoR 2)**

_You will never have to fear them again._

Anders sat staring into his pint of ale, not really seeing the frothing, golden liquid. Not really hearing the merry tune filling the Hanged Man either. Instead, Rolan's death flashed vividly through his mind, bringing the usual bitterness with it.  _Am I an abomination?_  Part of him flared up at the thought, but the former Templar had not been his only victim. The remains of other Grey Wardens had littered the clearing where he had merged with Justice. They had been innocent.

 _They had been there to aid Rolan. How innocent could they have been?_  It was an argument Anders had gone through time and again. The ex-Templar had marked himself the executioner when he proclaimed the Grey Wardens would not tolerate an abomination within their ranks. It had been self defense, but for the sake of whose preservation?

 _I am an abomination._  Emotions raged inside him at such a statement, threatening to pull him into the yawning chasm Justice had opened.  _I could have stunned them._ He was a nightmare with his customized bardiche, and could have incapacitated Rolan in a few quick moves.  _I knew his weaknesses._

"Anders, you look as if you found the meaning of life in that brew, and are horrified of it," Hawke took a seat beside him, nudging him gently. She smiled crookedly at him, a thin scar that now ran along her jaw line having pinched her skin and pulled down the corner of her mouth. She was still slurring her words, and her hand flew to her hair more often than not, in a vain attempt of pulling it over her mangled ear.

"Not quite. I am mourning the loss of my ability to drink myself into oblivion," he replied sighing. Her smile broadened, though he was not fooled by it. Anders knew her to be still in pain. Rather than using throwing knives and daggers, she had rained arrows on the Tal-Vashoth from a safe distance. There had been no extravagant displays of magic either, though they fought far from Kirkwall, where people rarely treaded.

"Is the prospect of spelunking in the Deep Roads that bad?"

 _Ah, the Deep Roads. Almost forgot about that._  With all the coin in place, the Tethras brothers were busy getting the supplies and manpower for the undertaking. They expected to leave in a few days' time. "Well, my nightmares are always worse whenever I am down there," he replied smoothly.

"Nightmares?" Hawke echoed.

"Yet another wonderful aspect of being a Grey Warden. Everyone in the Order has them. Ogres shredding you to pieces, broodmothers shrieking, that sort of thing. Oh, and it gets worse during a Blight. Lucky me, I was inducted after your cousin slew the Archdemon."

"I never knew," Hawke stammered. "I'm sorry, Anders. No wonder you..." she trailed off.

"Merged with a creature of the Fade and turned into an abomination?" he murmured, taking a cautious sip of the ale. The question earned him a surprised look. "Don't tell me that wasn't what you were going to say."

Hawke studied him for a few uncomfortable moments. There was  _sympathy_  in her eyes. Anders hated that even more than the icy regard she favoured him with whenever the subject came up.  _Am_ I  _irritated with her, or is_ Justice _?_

"I just did not expect you to bring the issue up in here," she gestured at the drunken lot murdering a ballad by the tap. "My feelings about your... condition have been negative to begin with," she went on quietly. "Frankly, I am still not comfortable with the situation."

Anders scoffed, and shook his head before taking on the ale once again.  _Perhaps if I drink slowly..._  She made a frustrated sound and promptly took the mug out of his hands.

"Please, Anders, listen to me," she asked softly. "Do you know what has kept me alive all this time?"

"I would venture to say, your wits," he offered. Anger was slowly bubbling up inside him.  _She is a traitor to her kind!_  He blinked in confusion for a moment. That... that had not been him! That was Justice!  _He hates her._  The abrupt realization sickened him.

" - teachings. Every time I was in doubt about anything whatsoever, I went back to his words," Hawke went on, oblivious to his shifting attention. "As far as creatures of the Fade are concerned, I was taught that the more powerful a demon, the subtler it is, and the subtler its manifestation in this world becomes. But the fundamental trait of all demons is selfishness." She paused and took a deep breath, as if readying herself for battle. "Anders, I have never met a more generous or selfless person than you." She hesitantly brushed her fingers against his cheek, the contact raising goose bumps along his neck and arms. "Fight."

"What if I will have no strength left in me?" he whispered hoarsely.

"You take strength from the people who care about you," Hawke replied smiling.

"Sabine, I - "

"Stop panicking, I am not asking you to marry me," she chided, and then extended her hand. "Friends?"

"Friends."

 

* * *

 

 

"Sabine, you cannot do this to me," Carver rumbled. Ever since the funds had been invested into the Deep Roads expedition, it had been a never-ending argument.

"Since when has your whining about an issue changed my mind?" Sabine asked, sidestepping a suspicious-looking puddle. The way from the Hanged Man to her uncle's house was... quaint. One couldn't find such a blend of aromas wafting around any other parts of Kirkwall. It was enough to bemoan the existence of a sense of smell.

"I am  _not_  whining," her brother replied petulantly. "I helped you earn that coin! I have a right to - "

"Get yourself ripped in half by an ogre?" Sabine snapped, her patience at an end. "It is too great a risk, Carver."

"So what would you have me do?" Her brother stumped slowly up the stairs leading to Gamlen's home. "Look after mother, while you go play the hero?"

Sabine stopped and pinched the bridge of her nose in frustration. Even the words were the exact same ones every time they argued over the Deep Roads. "I just can't - "

"Can't recognize that I am a grown man?" came the peevish question.

Sabine threw her arms up in exasperation.  _When was the last time he got a good paddling?_  "So help me, Carver... You know what, big man? Sure, come along. Try your hand at  _playing the hero_. But know that Darkspawn scare me straight, and if you don't feel the same about them, you are either a fool or stupid, or both. I swear to you, if you make me bring your ashes back to mother, I will find you in the Fade and give you such a - why did you stop, you big, clumsy ox?"

Carver filled the doorway squarely, blocking her view, but his tensed stance raised her hackles. Beside her, Toby issued a low growl. When she finally managed to squeeze past her brother, Sabine's heart dropped into her stomach.

"You have visitors, dear," Leandra met her nervously. A Chantry Sister sat cosily in Gamlen's chair, by the fireplace. And opposite her, stood a Templar. "Sister Petrice, and her bodyguard, Ser Varnell."

"To what do I owe this honour?"

"I have an urgent matter to discuss with you, Serah Hawke," the cleric began. "I am told you are a person who  _gets things done_."

Sabine motioned the pair towards her uncle's meagre study, noting that the Templar was practically oozing lyrium. She could not help thinking what a fine joke it was for her to be dragged off to the Gallows mere days before the Deep Roads expedition.

"You are very good," the Templar drawled after Sabine had closed the door. He stood uncomfortably close.

"I am not sure what - "

"I have to literally breathe down your neck to feel the power flowing through you," he went on, slowly advancing on her until she backed up against the door. Varnell's arms were bracketing her, an unpleasant smile blooming on his lips. "And, my, aren't you powerful? So young, and already a near match to the First Enchanter."

"That is enough, Varnell," the cleric warned.

Abruptly, the Templar turned away from Sabine. It did nothing to diminish the panicked drumming of her heart.

"There is no use playing innocent," Petrice went on. "You are an apostate. The question is, how much do you value your freedom?"

"You said you wanted  _something done_ , Sister," Sabine's throat felt completely parched.

"Ah, straight to the point. Good," Petrice smiled. "I need someone smuggled out of this city. It has to be done quickly and discreetly."

"Who is it?"

Petrice considered her for a few moments, amusement playing on her features. "Come with me, and you shall see."

 

* * *

 

 

The Saarebas stood impassively as Petrice described what she wanted in return for her silence. Fitted with a massive iron collar that could not be easily removed, the Qunari looked more like an animal to be chained than a person. His face was hidden behind a monstrous mask, no doubt designed to inspire fear or serve as warning. Only his lips were visible, and those too looked disturbing. Covered with a crosshatched tattoo, they appeared to have been sown shut.

"This mage was the sole survivor of a violent clash with Tal-Vashoth in Darktown," Petrice explained.

"Darktown?" Sabine echoed dubiously. "I wasn't aware Tal-Vashoth roamed Kirkwall's underbelly."

"You seem surprised," Petrice remarked. "Why? The Qunari may have been gifted part of the Docks as temporary abode, but the Viscount placed no restrictions on their movements. Have you not seen them throughout Kirkwall?"

"Occasionally," Sabine replied. "I suppose outsiders like ourselves would find it difficult to distinguish between Qunari and Tal-Vashoth, unless they would name themselves. Even so, it is still unexpected. The Qunari keep mostly to themselves. Is this mage Tal-Vashoth?"

"We do not know. He has not spoken a word since we found him."

"Does he even want to be freed?"

"Surely, no sentient being would willingly submit to such barbaric treatment," Petrice argued.

"Perhaps it would be wiser to present him to the Arishok," Sabine suggested, though she knew things would not end happily for the Saarebas.

"I believe that would only serve to further appease the Qunari," Petrice countered impatiently. "Besides, do you really think he will be welcomed with open arms? A mage? The Qunari censure magic more so than the Chantry. Not even a Templar would bind a mage like this. Complaints there might be, but the Circle is a place of learning."

 _Some might describe it as a prison, Sister, where the inmates are not much better off than this Saarebas. At least the Qunari are honest about it, and do not try to coat the shackles with a veneer of gold to make it morally acceptable._  But, of course, such a thought could not be expressed.  _Anders is rubbing off on me._ "Why are you worried about appeasing the Qunari?"

"You ask a lot of questions, Serah," the cleric warned. "Very well, if you insist. You are of Ferelden. You have not experienced the pressures exerted by the Qunari, have not witnessed the spread of their blasphemous religion or what happens to those who refuse to follow it. Presently, Chantry authorities view the Qunari as a challenge, not a threat. Make no mistake, however, they are a very serious threat. I should think that you of all people would want to oppose them, fight them with everything you've got."

"And smuggling this Saarebas out of Kirkwall will help stop the spread of the Qun?"

"It will serve a small part," Petrice admitted. "But it will be something. You will lead this mage to a contingent of Kadan-Fe."

"A mercenary group, and a dangerous one at that."

"True, but they want things to change in Par Vollen. What better way of dealing the Qunari a blow than through their own kind?" Petrice asked smiling innocently.

 _Maker, I hate this woman_. She did not believe one word the cleric had said, but found she had little choice in the matter. Whether Petrice's grand plan would work was of no consequence, really. The question was whether the Sister would keep her end of the bargain.  _How much do I value my freedom? Fucking bitch..._

 

* * *

 

 

Sabine stood on hands and knees. Blood trickled down her temple and from her nose, leaving bright red splotches on the white sand. She finally sat back on her haunches with a groan, her eyes searching for Carver. Her brother stood twenty feet away, leaning heavily onto his sword. The weapon was firmly planted into the body of a Qunari. Toby lounged at Carver's feet, panting, but apparently unhurt.  _That lily-livered peddler of incense set us up. And what for?_  The Saarebas they had somehow managed to sneak through the city lay lifeless before her. That was not her doing, at least.

"Qunari are crazy," Carver called, retrieving his sword and making his way towards her. He plopped himself down on a patch of unstained sand. "Can you do anything about this?" He asked, turning his back towards Sabine to expose a long cut.

"I'm spent, Carver, I'm sorry. I do have my kit with me, though. I can stitch you up."

Struggling to steady her hand, Sabine cleaned the wound with Elfroot tincture, then carefully closed the cut with silk thread and slapped on a bandage.

She kept replaying the frenzied exchange with the Qunari in her mind. The ones waiting for them at the specified location had not been the Kadan-Fe, but rather a small band of Qunari soldiers headed by an Arvaarad - the equivalent of a Templar.

_"I will fight them to give you your freedom, if you wish it."_

_The Saarebas had looked at her, his expression hidden behind the mask, then walked slowly towards the Arvaarad._

_"You are worthy of following."_

Why the Saarebas had come to such a conclusion, Sabine could not fathom. It did nothing to prevent bloodshed, however.  _Well, the Arvaarad did offer an honourable death as a result._

"Any thoughts on what that Chantry Sister was trying to accomplish here?" Carver asked, anger marring his voice.

"Well, obviously the guilt of eliminating the... Karataam was supposed to be lain at our feet," Sabine replied thoughtfully. "Petrice might have calculated that the Qunari would become enraged enough to kill us."

"But why was killing us so important to her?"

"I think it was more a matter of Qunari killing Kirkwallers," Sabine sighed. "She wants to bring them down, remember?  _Deal them a blow._ "

"Do you think we should pay her a visit?"

"What? At the Chantry? Forget about it. Let's just hope she will keep quiet about me until we leave for the Deep Roads."

"What about the Arishok?" Carver asked.

"I think we should let him know," Sabine said reluctantly. "Despite what Petrice wanted us to believe, I have not heard of a single incident where Qunari engaged in violence against people here. Tal-Vashoth in the city my arse. They were haunting the caravan routes outside Kirkwall. We disposed of the buggers." She took a ragged breath, and looked her brother squarely in the face. "I do not want to be the reason the Arishok decides to bring the Qun to Kirkwall."

"And what if he asks for retribution?" came the doubtful question.

"Then, I suppose, you will be going to the Deep Roads without me," she replied chuckling.


	8. The Deep Roads

**"As amusing as your savage dances are, once again I have proven the superiority of putting your nose to the grindstone and not mucking about."  
\- Sir Roderick Ponce von Fontlebottom, the Magnificent Bastard (Jade Empire)**

 

            To Fenris’ relief, the cramped passage gave way to a cavern large enough to fit a grand chantry in, easing his growing claustrophobia. Veins of lyrium ran along the walls, and bathed the scene in subdued, blue light. Splashes of water could be heard from the far end of the cave, where a small lake rippled gently. The underground passages certainly held a beauty of their own, with their glittering walls, multihued, flower-like rock formations, and phosphorescent groupings of mushrooms. Yet, try as he might, Fenris could not stop himself from wondering just how much the thousand feet or so of stone he was walking beneath must have weighed. He once again came to the conclusion that dwarfs were insane to make their home in such an environment.

            Fenris watched the rest of their expeditionary crew rumbling into the cavern. Precious few were left, Bartrand having hired most of their initial force for his own selfish purpose.

He could picture the Dwarf’s still beating heart fitting snugly within his hand, but thought it an unlikely conclusion to this whole affair. Varric would be the one to do the honours.

Having come from a place where a man would have sold his children for profit, Fenris had not been surprised by Bartrand’s betrayal. His companions had been disbelieving, however. Even Isabela had termed it a “low blow”.

He continued surveying the cavern as the men set up camp, and started preparations for a meal. It was not all a loss. Their remaining pack animals were heavily loaded with the treasure they had found after defeating the ancient rock wraith. Of course, it did not alter the fact that their food supplies were running low. Nugs and edible mushrooms were not common in this forgotten section of the Deep Roads. It would not be long before they would have to start sacrificing their pack animals, and leave the valuable loot behind.

            While these gloomy thoughts filled his mind, he saw Hawke and Anders emerging from the recesses of the cavern, twin thunderclouds moving rapidly. Their scouting must have turned up something unpleasant. Hawke’s massive hound bounded happily ahead of them, an incongruous addition to the picture. Fenris quickly made his way to the two mages, steeling himself for the unpleasant news they undoubtedly carried.

            “Do we have to backtrack again?” Fenris asked once everyone had gathered.

            “No, not this time,” Hawke replied wearily, drawing a scoff from Anders.

            “Darkspawn are moving our way,” the healer warned. “About half a day ahead of us.”

            “How many are we talking about exactly?” Varric asked.

            “A troop. That means fifty Darkspawn in total, with two Ogres,” Anders explained. “And, as luck would have it, they have an Emissary with them.”

            “Why don’t we just hide somewhere, and wait until they move on?” Isabela asked innocently.

            “They are aware of my presence,” Anders replied frustrated.

 

* * *

           

            Anders listened resignedly as Hawke laid out her plan before the rest of the crew. It entailed far too much risk for his taste, but then, the readiness to do something daring was necessary for a leader. He had never enjoyed holding people’s lives in his hands in this manner, moving them about like carved pieces on a game board. His thoughts drifted to the last few days of scouting. They lay flattened on a stone outcropping, close to the ceiling of the cavern, and studied the Darkspawn below with dismay.

“Is that an Emissary?” Hawke whispered, her body a formless mound within the gloom of their hiding spot.

            “Unfortunately,” Anders replied with a sinking heart. As if two Ogres were not enough to contend with. That troop simply _had_ to have a spell caster. “We have to backtrack again,” he went on in hushed tones.

            “We can’t, Anders, not this time.”

            They snuck away from their lofty observation point, and followed a twisted path back towards their companions.

            “Our supplies are running low,” Hawke began, once they had gone a goodly distance. “Unless we want to give up the pack animals and most of the loot, we will have to go through those Darkspawn.”

            “My life would be loot enough, under the present circumstances,” Anders replied, shaking his head.

            Hawke stopped in her tracks, and pinched the bridge of her nose, followed by a deep sigh. “I need you, Anders. Don’t do this to me now.”

            “Fear not, I won’t abandon you,” he grinned. “Never been able to say ‘no’ to a pretty girl.” _Ah, haven’t seen that smile in a while._

“Well, aren’t we romantic?” Hawke asked tartly. “I’d rather you help me figure out what to do about one Emissary, two Ogres, and nigh on fifty humanoid Darkspawn.” They continued walking in silence for a while, before she went on: “I don’t think I have enough strength left in me to pound them with anything heavy.”

            “And I am all out of lyrium,” Anders replied in equally bland tones.

            “You have used your powers more sparingly, though,” she mused.

            Anders gave her a long, sideways glance. “I can see where this is headed, but I’m afraid you shall be disappointed. I might have the strength, but I lack the ability to pound them with anything heavy, as you’ve so quaintly put it.”

            “Pfft, _ability_ ,” Sabine mocked. “You already know how to summon both fire and ice. You just feed the spell to make it bigger, and then you release it.”

            Anders frowned at the gleefulness he detected in her voice. _You really like your destructive magic, don’t you?_ “Assuming it doesn’t blow up in my face first – which it will, by the way,” he replied with a sigh. “Sabine, I can defend myself readily, but if you are hoping to see me reign down fire and ice to flatten a whole troop of Darkspawn, you’ll be disappointed. And I am _not_ going to tap into Justice’s power.”

            “No, I would never ask it of you,” Hawke reassured him hastily. Then after a brief pause: “How many of those monsters _could_ you flatten, though?”

            “Maybe five Darkspawn. I might be able to incapacitate an Ogre, but I would have to finish him off with a weapon. You have to remember that my talent lies with healing magic.”

            Of the frustration that had coloured Hawke’s features at his statement there was no trace left at present. She addressed the others with confidence, and a cursory look at the group sent a shiver down Anders’ spine. No doubts there, only grim determination. No arguments for evasion and flight were offered, only a suggestion here and there to improve strategy. He wondered whether Hawke realized that she had this group in her hands; that they would follow her through the blackness of the Void itself. Had it been the ancient rock wraith that had bound them all together? Anders found that he could not exclude himself from the assessment: he too would face the Void for Hawke. _Indomitable._ It described her perfectly. But would it be enough to keep them all alive? For Hawke was far from recovered.

The magic she had used throughout their time underground had been basic, mostly directed at enhancing her physical abilities. She had not so much as conjured a speck of ice or floated a pebble. Until they encountered the ancient rock wraith, that is. Whatever magic had held the construct together, Hawke somehow managed to rip apart. The wraith had been practically dismembered.

Impressive as Hawke’s feat had been, it had left her terribly weakened. _“Anders, I need you to help me stay on my feet for a little while longer.”_ He had done as asked, and then had argued with her not to take any watches for the rest of their return trip. She grudgingly agreed. Yet here she was only a few days later, ready to push herself beyond her limits once again.

“We have disposed of some scouts already,” Hawke said. “We went hunting, so it should take the Darkspawn some time to figure out what direction to pursue.”

“They will find us sooner rather than later, though,” the healer cautioned.

“Anders is right, we do not have a lot of time, but we do have an edge.”

 

* * *

 

            Anders’ eyes were wide with frenzy as he strained to maneuver at full speed through the twisting passages. His lungs were about to give out, and pain stabbed through his side with every stride. _Well, I got their attention,_ he thought ruefully. Of course, it was not the whole troop that was chasing after him, but the Darkspawn were clever enough to appreciate the threat even a single Grey Warden could pose. Consequently, he had about a dozen of them on his heels, among them an Ogre. Praise the Maker, they could not tell he was a spell caster. Then he’d have had the Emissary to deal with as well.

After negotiating another sharp turn, Anders came to an abrupt stop, eyes frantically searching the tunnel walls.

“There you are,” he breathed, and placed his foot on a narrow rock outcropping.

The healer quickly made his way up the wall, and swung himself onto a ledge that jutted out close to the high ceiling. Once in position, he let his mind drift. The humidity in these deep passageways was quite high, and he easily latched onto the water that saturated the air. Sharp crystals formed all around him, floating in the air, poised for flight.

Moments later, the Darkspawn rumbled past, oblivious to the Warden’s hiding place. Before they could disappear from sight, Anders sent a volley of ice spears. Most bounced off walls or armour, but some lodged themselves into Darkspawn flesh, and two Genlocks dropped lifelessly to the ground.

Confusion spread among the smaller creatures, as they stumbled over their fallen comrades. The Ogre lumbered on for another ten feet before turning with a roar and speeding back towards Anders’ position. In the meantime, arrows started flying down the tunnel, and two more Darkspawn dropped dead, with a third howling in pain as an arrow pierced its knee. With three arrows sticking out its back, the Ogre decided that the greater source of danger lay behind it, turned in its tracks once again, and lurched down the passage.

 

* * *

 

Hawke kept to the shadows at the end of the cavern, observing the Darkspawn while they set up defensive positions. A group had detached itself earlier with an Ogre in tow, following Anders into a trap. He had been the only one to come close enough to the Darkspawn to attract their attention. The rest of the crew had kept themselves at a safe distance, making judicious use of cramped side passages and crawling through tunnels when necessary.

Presently, Varric, Isabela and Fenris were positioned behind the remaining Darkspawn, opposite Hawke’s location. The creatures had their hackles raised, aware that they were being watched.

“Right,” Sabine whispered, deciding it was time to move, and picked out a Hurlock about eighty feet away. She had never actually witnessed the casting of the spell she was trying for; had only read about it in her father’s long lost notes. It was very similar to healing, only in reverse – rather than helping the body recover, it broke it down further. Sabine remembered her father’s disappointment at her lack of finesse as far as healing was concerned, and felt colour rise in her cheeks even now at the memory. Creating a virulent walking bomb did not benefit from a gentle touch, however. In fact, a mailed fist was perfect. Sabine inhaled sharply, latched onto the seed at the heart of every living thing in Thedas, and _twisted it._

The Hurlock stumbled in its tracks, but recovered in a moment, and continued on a path that would take it deeper into the camp site. _One, two, three, four –_ the Hurlock suddenly exploded, body parts flying in every direction, its blood hanging in the air as a fine mist. The Darkspawn trapped within the red mist doubled over in pain, and collapsed to the ground, racked with convulsions.

Sabine watched the frenzy spread among the creatures for a moment, then fixed her gaze on the Emissary. Sharp razors slashed through her brain as the Darkspawn spell caster became aware of her. The glee she felt radiating in her direction was abruptly cut off as the spell she had prepared trapped the Emissary in a stony prison. No magic to fight off, but there came the second Ogre lumbering in her direction, followed by half a dozen Darkspawn. Hawke promptly abandoned her position, and fled before the charge. Five heartbeats later, the ground shook beneath her feet. She risked a glance back, and derived grim satisfaction at the sight of three creatures that had stumbled into her glyph traps and had managed to get a leg or two blown off in the process. The Ogre kept coming though. Fast.

 

* * *

   

As soon as the Emissary became trapped, Fenris burst out of cover, and carved his way through the foul Darkspawn. Isabela flashed in and out of sight, and Varric’s work was obvious in the beasts that dropped to the ground with crossbow bolts sticking out of eyes or throats. A burst of flames hit the Elf’s side just as he finished slicing a Hurlock in two. The lyrium tattoos lit up angrily, and absorbed the damage. Apparently, the Emissary was free.

“Not for long,” Fenris breathed, and plunged in the direction of the Darkspawn caster, mowing down anything in his path with careless grace.

One blast of magic after the other rolled off harmlessly as the Elf advanced. Before the Emissary finally realized that hurtling projectiles at the enemy would be more effective, its heart was ripped out of its chest. Green eyes, and glowing lyrium veins running along a cleanly shaven head was the last image the creature processed before collapsing lifelessly.

 

* * *

 

            Hawke glanced up from her left palm just in time to avoid a group of stalagmites in her path – or was it stalactites? The rune she had traced was done, though in her present environment she could not tell whether it had worked. She risked a quick look back, and was relieved to see the group of Darkspawn on her heels frozen in their pursuit. She ran on as fast as her legs could carry her until the rune disappeared from her palm. She retraced it thrice more before stopping to make her stand.

            She reached into a pocket and produced Sandal’s rune stone. The artifact glowed weakly in her hand, making it difficult to believe that it had held an Ogre at bay. Sabine took a calming breath, pushing her doubts aside. She then focused on the humidity of the air, and latched onto the water that hid in plain sight. The rune stone floated up, and was coated in successive layers of ice. Subtle tremors beneath her feet told Hawke that the Ogre and its friends were closing in.

            And there they were, spilling into the tunnel, with the Ogre in the lead. Sabine waited two heartbeats for the group to be completely in her sights, and then sent the coated rune stone in their direction. The passageway exploded with ice, and was then filled with mist. Struggling to keep her teeth from chattering at the sudden drop in temperature, Sabine levitated eight sizeable rocks off the ground, and split them into smaller pieces. She held them in the air before her for five heartbeats, trying to gather all of her remaining strength. With a sharp intake of breath, she finally _pushed_ , and the projectiles shot off at blinding speed. Frozen Darkspawn bodies were shattered into hundreds of pieces, and the tunnel was filled with the overpowering sound of their destruction.

            It only took a few moments before silence settled within the deep passageway. Once the mist dissipated, it left behind a scene of carnage: scattered across the ground over a stretch of sixty feet were shapeless pieces of flesh, the walls splashed with rusty splotches. And at the end of this carpet of gore, Hawke lay crumpled in a heap, oblivious to her surroundings.       

 

* * *

 

“Oh, no you don’t,” Anders muttered at the Ogre’s retreating back, and strings of light snapped around the beast, immobilizing it. He did not pause to watch Carver burst out of cover, and bury his blade into the trapped creature’s midriff, then cut off its head in one swift motion. Instead, Anders sent another volley of ice spears flying, dropped to the floor, his bardiche at the ready. The weapon remained clean, however – Carver, moving like a dervish, had dispatched all the remaining Darkspawn.

            The boy – _not anymore_ , Anders thought – delivered the _coup-de-grace_ to one final beast, then cleaned his heavy blade on a piece of cloth he produced from a pocket. As the healer approached, Carver leaned to one side, hacked and spit. He was splattered with blood from head to toe.


	9. Farewell, Carver

**“I have a bad feeling about this.” – Atton Rand (KotoR II).**

Four days after the Darkspawn had been disposed of, Hawke remained unconscious. What was left of the expeditionary force was setting up camp within the ruins of an abandoned Dwarven forward post. Varric had finished giving directions to the hired hands, and was studying Anders’ Deep Roads maps. He could not have wished for a more beautiful sight than the decaying buildings of his forgotten kin. The crumbling stone drew only a cursory glance, however: his admiration was strictly focused onto the maps. He had to resist the urge of pencilling in a great, big, red circle, along with an arrow and the words: “You are here.”

“We must be about ten days from the surface. What do you say, Blondie?” He flagged the healer down, who was making his way through the camp with a distracted air. Anders took the maps and studied them briefly.

“Not at the rate we’ve been moving lately. We should reassess our rations.” With that, he shoved the rolls of parchment back into Varric’s hands, and headed for the supplies.

Shaking his head, the Dwarf pondered the effects of taking on the mantle of leadership. He concluded, yet again, that some took to it better than others. With Hawke incapacitated, and the group stranded in the Deep Roads, everyone’s eyes had naturally turned to the Warden. Even Carver followed his lead. Then again, the youth had retreated deeply into himself after discovering his sister’s condition. He probably would not have objected to Sandal taking over. Meanwhile, Anders grew increasingly haggard with every day that brought no improvement to Hawke’s situation. And snappish.

Varric rolled up the maps, replaced them in their hard, cylindrical case, and surveyed his surroundings in search of some company. Preferably someone who still had a sense of humour. In moments he strode to Isabela and Fenris, the Elf as dour as ever.

“Good news,” Varric began, “we are out of the woods. Or rather, out of the bottomless limbo that houses exotic wonders such as giant – and lively – rock monsters.”

“Perfect timing too,” Isabela smirked. “I’ve had enough of phosphorescent lighting.” She turned to Fenris, and went on conversationally: “Who knew pearly whites could be creepy?” The question elicited no more than a long, even look beneath a cocked brow. “So, how long before we see some sunshine?”

Varric gave her the estimate, then added: “Let us hope for no more Darkspawn encounters. I’ve had enough excitement for one month.”

“What of Hawke?” Fenris asked, his grave tone shattering Varric’s hopes for a light discussion.

“I expect our valiant leader to awake from her beauty rest sooner rather than later.” The Dwarf’s remark drew a scoff.

“Come now, Fenris, show some optimism,” Isabela cajoled. “Hawke _will_ wake. And while we wait for that moment, I have a new colour for you: mauve.”

“A worthy effort,” the Elf tried to suppress a smile. “Yet so very wrong.”

“Is there a punishment for getting it wrong?” Isabela purred.

Varric chuckled. _This should be diverting._

 

* * *

 

            Carver stared at the blood smeared across his fingers. His hand was shaking slightly as he tried to process what was happening to him. He had struggled to hold down his meals during the past four days. And now, there was blood coming back up, not just half-digested food. He stumbled away from the site of his sickness, and groped his way through the passage, blind to his surroundings. He did not get very far before his foot got caught in a rock outcropping, and he fell. Slowly, he propped himself up, and marched towards the tunnel’s side, where he collapsed against the wall. He closed his eyes and a soft chuckle escaped him. That he should end like this. And that the resentment he felt towards his sister should be stronger than the terror of what the future held for him. Not because he blamed Sabine for his current condition. But because she had been bloody _right._ As usual.

            “Dear Sister,” he chortled. “Thank you for letting me play the hero.”

And she had put it so _accurately._ For that was precisely what he had done – not just while spelunking in the Deep Roads, but during all of their jobs: playing the hero. _Playing_. Oh, he had been aware that there was danger, and he had had a few close calls even before this adventure in the bowels of the earth. But Sabine had always been there to save his sorry arse.

“You couldn’t save me now, though,” he muttered, and derived a perverse satisfaction from the fact. Not even the great Sabine Hawke could save him from his fate this time.

That his sister might not return to consciousness never occurred to him.

“You’ll outlive us all.”

As the words left his mouth, Carver felt a shiver run down his spine. A vision unfurled before him of a desolate landscape with an overcast sky. The only thing moving across the blasted land was Sabine, struggling to pull a burden behind her: four shrouded, human-shaped bundles. Two were larger, but all of them had their white shrouds fastened with rope around the neck, across the chest, around the waist, down to the knees and ankles. And though their faces were hidden, Carver knew those figures all too well – he knew himself to be among them.

“Maker have mercy, you’ll outlive us all,” he whispered and quiet sobs wracked his body.

 

* * *

  

            Anders crouched beside Hawke, feeling for a pulse. It was weak, but _there_. And, importantly, it was steady. He traced a rune in both her palms, and onto her forehead. They lit up with blue light, dissipated moments later. It was enough to bring some colour back to her pale cheeks, however. As for the healer, he was left ashen.

            Hawk’s condition was beginning to fray his patience. Partly because he had been unable to improve it despite his best efforts. Partly – and he was ashamed to admit it even to himself – because he wanted to leave the Deep Roads behind. To return to Kirkwall, where his actions might matter. Where he might bring justice to those who were most oppressed in Thedas. The present situation was an unwelcome delay. Hawke was slowing him down, distracting him from his true purpose. Anders loathed himself for such thoughts.

            To his chagrin, it was Carver that helped him find his balance. The youth seated himself across the fire, shoulders hunched, face hidden beneath the cowl of his cloak. He had done an admirable job of hiding his deadly affliction from the rest of the group, and had sworn Anders to silence. The boy was alone in his suffering. It was heartbreaking.

            “Let me have a look at you.”

            “What’s the point? It’s not like you can do anything to stop this,” Carver sneered.            

            “I can ease the pain,” Anders replied quietly. Then, lowering his voice further: “I can put an end to it, should you wish it.”

            The offer was met with no comment. “How long do I have?”

            “How long do you have for what?” The voice startled them, and they both reached for their weapons instinctively. Hawke sat scowling at them through the flames, her short hair jutting out in disarray around her head. It was an incongruous image.

She rose from her bedroll, taking a few moments to gain her balance, then shuffled over to her brother, and pulled the cowl off his face. She knelt before Carver, eyes growing wide.

“Oh, no,” she whispered, and reached a trembling hand towards her sibling. She gently traced the edge of his cheek, the skin pale and translucent. Dark circles rimmed the boy’s eyes, and the whites were dotted with angry, red splotches where capillaries had burst.

“You must do something,” she turned to Anders, her voice broken.

“I would have done it already, had I been able to do anything at all.”

“You are a Warden,” Hawke remarked angrily. “There must be _something_ you can do.”

“Sabine, this is not a secret I have been made privy to. I do not know how to keep the taint at bay, and turn your brother into a Warden.”

“Then find some Wardens that _have_ been made privy to that secret,” Hawke snapped.

 

* * *

 

            Explaining that the likelihood of finding a group of Wardens with the necessary knowledge and ingredients for performing the initiation ritual in time to save Carver was minimal did not discourage Hawke. She had pressed Anders for what she wanted, and, by Andraste, when she pushed, it was impossible not to yield. So, here he was, crawling through another tunnel, trying to get closer to the group he thought he had sensed earlier. He just hoped it really _was_ Wardens and not more Darkspawn. Sometimes it was difficult to distinguish between the two.

            The narrow passage finally ended, and Anders dropped a short distance to the ground into a wide cave. He barely straightened before a sharp kick to the popliteus caused his knees to buckle, and he found himself on the floor. Another kick to his stomach, and he fell on his side, curled up in pain. A blow on his temple quickly followed suit, and the world went dark.

            He awoke an indeterminate amount of time later next to a fire. There was a gag in his mouth, and his hands and feet were bound together at his back, forcing him into an uncomfortable arching position. Squirming only made the knots tighten, so he tried to relax as best he could against his restraints.

            “Sleeping beauty has finally awoken, Lieutenant,” a gruff voice noted from somewhere to his side and above. A pair of boots parked themselves before him, then their owner squatted down. Anders strained to look up, and his eyes widened in recognition. The gag was removed from his mouth.

            “Nathaniel,” the healer breathed.

            “This is the last place I expected to meet you again, Anders,” the Warden remarked evenly.  

            “Believe me, it is the last place I want to be. But I need your help.”

“Don’t tell me you lost my maps?” Nathaniel gibed. Seeing Ander’s surprise, he went on with a smirk: “So sorry to disappoint you, mate. I know how fondly you hold to the opinion that I am both blind and stupid.”

“By my recollection, the only thing I ever accused you of was having a distinct lack of humour,” Anders replied nonchalantly. Well, as nonchalantly as anyone could act while restrained in such undignified fashion. “Why else have me gagged and tied up like a calf ready for the slaughter?”

“Why, it is precisely to satisfy my humour,” Nathaniel chuckled. “He does look rather funny, trussed up like that, doesn’t he, boys?” Judging by the gruff sniggers, the “boys” agreed.

“That’s no way to treat a friend. Is this really necessary?” Anders wiggled, trying to point at his bindings.

            “While restraints are ultimately ineffective in the absence of a Templar, they _are_ necessary. How else was I to get that priceless look on your face? I shall always remember your visage fondly.” Nathaniel studied him for a few moments before continuing: “Never imagined I’d be the one to return you to the fold. Then again, I’m not the one who was tasked with your supervision.” Answering Anders’ perplexed question, he went on: “The Wardens are not a club you can quit whenever things become inconvenient. It is a calling. Of course we keep an eye on you. Like it or not, you belong to us for the rest of your miserable life.” A slow smile spread across his face. “I’m afraid you’ll have a very chilly welcome awaiting you, but I’ll be damned if I feel sorry for you. If there is anyone who could wipe that perpetual smirk off your face, that’d be _her_.”

            “Is this what you call a ‘sense of humour’?” Anders asked bitterly. “You are too busy gloating to see what is right under your nose. Am I smirking right now, Nathaniel Howe?”

            “I simply assumed it was a temporary state,” the Warden shrugged.

            “Nathaniel, I’m begging you. I need your help!”

            The Warden leaned back on his haunches, a frustrated look crossing his face. “What have you done this time?”

            Anders explained Carver’s situation as best he could, struggling to keep his anger in check at his present condition.

            “The boy is strong,” the healer argued. “He’d – “

            Nathaniel silenced him with a wave of his hand. “I’ve heard enough. We’ll see what we can do.”

 

* * *

           

“Do you remember when you found Peaches and I in the barn?” Carver asked weakly. He sat propped against the wall with a pile of blankets to keep him comfortable. The camp fire was dancing merrily twenty feet away, and there was a pleasant smell saturating the air from Bodahn’s cooking.

“It is an image that has burned itself into my memory,” Sabine shivered. “The bosom on that girl, dear Maker! But why on earth would you bring _that_ up? Out of all the things to reminisce about.”

“My breeches were halfway down, her skirt – halfway up, and then, suddenly, the doors creak open. And she _screams_. Oh, it was an awful scream,” Carver chuckled.

“Squealed, more like,” came the even reply.

“But I will always remember how she fled your sight – skirts hitched up all the way to her waist, white bottom shaking with every step. Poor girl, forgot her drawers in her hurry.”

“More like shame.”

“Oh, it was a magnificent sight,” Carver sighed.

“She never did manage to look me straight in the eye afterwards,” Hawke laughed quietly. “But you still haven’t answered my question. Why mention this now?”

“Ample bosoms and jiggling bottoms were my only preoccupation at the time,” Carver replied. “I had no real cares, and, in my foolishness, I believed that things would always remain thus. A month later, father died. Then four years later the Blight swallowed our home. And now, it is killing _me_. Why do I fixate on that memory of Peaches, you ask? Because it gives me comfort to remember how carefree I was then. Because it makes me less frightened of what is happening to me right now.”

“Oh, Carver – “

“I do not want your pity, Sabine,” he snapped. “But there is something I want you to do for me.” And Carver told of the vision he had had days before. “You will think it no doubt typical of me to have found joy at the sight of you carrying such a heavy burden. Glee would be a better way of putting it, actually. Because, you see, I _wanted_ you to feel guilty for our demise. I wanted you to bend and break beneath its weight, and I felt satisfaction at the thought that I would contribute to your downfall. But here’s the thing,” he paused to take measure of his sibling who had grown very still during his speech. Carver could sense her tightly contained fury. “Time is running out for me, and the thought of you carrying our deaths on your conscience for the rest of your life inspires only grief. It is not to be borne. I feel that I must say this out loud: you are not responsible for Father’s death, nor for Bethany’s, nor mine. And you must promise me to let go of your guilt. Do not labour beneath it for the remainder of your days, Sabine.”

Hawke shook her head slowly. “Anders _will_ return. The Wardens will help you.”

Carver laughed feebly. “Do you really think that I will be popping in for dinner every week with a tale of slaying Dark Spawn? No, Sabine. Anders gave me an idea of what it means to be a Grey Warden – I will be as good as dead for my family.”

“Don’t say such things – “

“But I must! And you better listen,” Carver hissed. “I have watched Father’s and Bethany’s shadows looming over you, I have watched how their loss hardened you. Believe it or not, to me it felt as if I had lost both my sisters. And what have I gained in return? Father’s long arm directing me from the Void. I want you to promise me to let go of your guilt.”

It was a long time before the reply came in a hoarse whisper: “Easier said than done, Brother.”

 

* * *

 

            It was shortly after dinner that Anders returned, and, to Hawke’s relief, he brought company. The combination of grim expressions and dangerous grace told her they were indeed Grey Wardens. She rose to welcome their leader, but her greeting was ignored. The quiet man headed straight for Carver, and examined him much like a farmer might a colt. Sabine clenched her teeth, repressing her fury.

            “You are of the Amell line, correct?” The Warden asked without interrupting his survey of Carver.

            “From our mother’s side, yes,” Sabine answered, frowning.

            “Strong people,” the Warden noted, straightening. He nodded at his men, and two stepped forward to pick Carver up between them. “Survivors.”

            “Where are you taking my brother?”

            “Back to our camp. We must hurry, there is not much time.”

            “Why did you not bring the necessary ingredients to cure him with you?” Hawke asked angrily.

            The Warden leader held her in an even gaze. “There is no cure for the taint. Your brother will die of it. Whether it will be now or in thirty years’ time, I cannot say.”

            “Wait, let me come with you,” Hawke pleaded. “I wish to – “

            “Join the Wardens?” The leader arched a brow. “Two Amells? And one of them a mage to boot. The Order would be most happy. Unless that was not what you were about to say? Because there will be no hand-holding should your brother expire. Not by you, at least. If you wish to make your farewells, I suggest you do it now.”

            “No, Sabine,” Carver said softly. “I can see the look in your eyes. You are actually considering it. You are not going to join the Wardens. I might not survive, and then Mother will have lost the both of us. She needs you more than I do. This _is_ goodbye.” He tried to stand without the Wardens’ help, and took Sabine in his arms. “Think well of me, Sister,” he whispered. “Maker be with you.”

            “Maker keep you, Carver,” came the broken reply.

 

* * *

 

            Half-carried between two Wardens, Carver was certain that he would breathe his last breath long before they would ever make it to the camp. The warriors were talking among themselves, but he paid no attention. Part of him was aware that this might soon become his new family, and that he should at least try to learn a little about them. However, he could not muster the will to care. He closed his eyes, and felt a familiar pressure building in his head. The kind that would hammer him whenever Hawke manipulated time. Whether it was her body speeding up, or everyone else around her slowing down, Carver could never quite understand. The end result was the same, however. Not surprisingly, when he opened his eyes again, the scenery had changed completely. He lost count of how many jumps they made that way until they finally reached the Warden encampment. All he remembered from that time was a question he had been asked.

            “The two of you were close, I gather?”

            “I suppose we were, at that.”


	10. Awakening

**“Definition: 'Love' is making a shot to the knees of a target 120 kilometers away using an Aratech sniper rifle with a tri-light scope... Love is knowing your target, putting them in your targeting reticule, and together, achieving a singular purpose against statistically long odds.” – HK-47 (KotoR)**

 

            The rooms were spacious, with high ceilings, and tall, narrow windows. It was not Leandra’s ancestral home, but it felt close. She walked around slowly, her fingers gently touching the exquisitely carved furniture, the delicate porcelain, and the hothouse flowers that gave the apartment a welcoming air with their riotous colours. She stopped briefly before the mirror, startled yet again by the visage staring back at her: a slightly baffled, albeit elegant noblewoman in mourning.

            “I have three more flats lined up, Mother.”

            Sabine’s reflection joined hers, and Leandra’s breath caught. It was as if the same person stood before her at two very different stages of life. _Have I ever been that beautiful?_ Though her hair had gone grey, and her daughter’s features were marred by scars, the resemblance was undeniable: the same brilliant green eyes, full mouth, and delicate nose. _Her mother’s looks, and her father’s indomitable nature._ Sabine was a survivor, if nothing else. Still, Leandra worried.

Carver’s passing had struck them both with untold grief, and they were still reeling from the tragedy. They coped very differently, however. Leandra mourned openly, and though memories of her son pained her, she did not shirk from them. She spoke of Carver often, and fondly. Sabine, on the other hand, never let her sorrow surface. Her features turned to stone whenever her brother was mentioned, and she changed the subject quickly. Instead, she had thrown herself with abandon into the effort of restoring the Amell legacy.

So it was that Leandra found herself installed at a reputable Hightown inn shortly after her daughter’s return. Then seamstresses started filing in with bolts of cloth to take her measurements and note her preference in fabric and style. A month later, she started receiving invitations to soirees from the minor houses in Kirkwall. Sabine’s Deep Roads venture had apparently created quite the stir among the nobles, and they expressed a keen interest in the “beautiful treasure huntress”. Leandra found that destitution had taken nothing away from her social graces, and she resumed playing the Great Game as if she had never been absent from it. She was glad to serve as ambassador to her eldest – and now only – child.

Presently she wrapped an arm around Sabine’s waist, hugging her close.

“I am happy with this one. No need to look further.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am.”

 

* * *

Autumn was nearly at an end, the trees skeletal in their appearance, the city bleak in the gray light. There was a chill in the air that promised many long, cold nights. Fenris pulled his wool cloak tightly around him and leaned against one of the colonnades that adorned the entrance to Hawke’s new home. He watched the seemingly endless line of crates and boxes flowing into the premises, silently disapproving the amount of material things upper-class living necessitated. Judging by the baleful expression Hawke wore as she supervised the deliveries however, the Elf surmised that she was not much pleased either. Silk dresses, brilliant jewelry, and porcelain figurines always brought a sour look on her face. Nevertheless, the Lady Leandra managed to cajole her into taking dancing lessons with an Orlesian instructor. Apparently, Hawke’s Antivan master did little to improve her social skills. Then again, her mother was not aware that _those_ dancing lessons involved daggers.

            Presently, Hawke picked one box out of the line, and ordered it opened. Fenris arched his brows with curiosity when the contents turned out to be tightly packed books. Hawke rummaged through them for a few moments, muttering to herself, then finally straightened with a satisfied look on her face.

            “I think this one should do for a beginner,” she cried, making her way towards the Elf. She held out the pocket sized book, and gave Fenris a lopsided grin. He took the offering and thumbed through it. Despite its minuscule size, it was illuminated, and his eyes lingered on the intricate images.           

            “The… B-bah-book of Sh-shah-shart-ahn,” he read painstakingly. “The Book of Shartan.” Fenris looked up quizzically.

            “Shartan helped Andraste free the Elven slaves from Tevinter’s grasp,” Hawke explained. “I hope you do not mind me giving away the ending.”

“You show me more kindness than I ever thought possible,” the Elf shook his head in wonder. He doubted that Hawke realized just how much truth his words contained.

Fenris had never expected any kindness from a mage; nor compassion; nor friendship; certainly no concern for his wishes. Illiteracy was common among Tevinter slaves, though in his case it had been used as another means of control. Nevertheless, Fenris had always been fascinated by books. What stories did the images that often adorned them tell? What knowledge lay hidden within the cryptic lines of letters? Whenever possible, he stole into Danarius’ library, and risked opening the tomes. Oh how Hadriana had delighted in dealing out punishment for such transgressions. And Hawke? She had offered to teach him to read and write as soon as she learned of his deficiency.

            “More kindness than you thought possible,” she repeated flatly. “Because I am a mage?” She laughed pleasantly. “Fenris, mages are _people_. Capable of every ill and good that people are normally capable of.” He immediately started protesting, but was cut short when Hawke placed a gentle hand on his chest. “Magic is an enabling tool. It is certainly dangerous, and as such places great responsibility on those capable of wielding it. The answer is not to eradicate magic, however. Or impose draconian rules onto those who can use it. But to educate and inspire.”

            “Do not be naïve, Hawke,” Fenris warned. “For every mage such as yourself, there are a dozen too weak to resist corruption.”

            “I agree. Which is why we need the Templars. But they should not be segregated from mages. My father told me that friendships between Templars and Mages were discouraged, while distrust between the two groups was fostered.” She sighed in frustration. “This is a philosophical discussion that generally leads nowhere. It is about as productive as arguing politics. All I can tell you, is that I completely disapprove of the methods used in Tevinter. Fenris, I look upon you as a friend. I trust you,” her hands now went to his shoulders, her eyes searching his. “With my life.”   

 

* * *

            “How about we up the ante?” Varric asked, and threw a silver coin onto the table.

            Isabela clicked her tongue, studied her cards thoughtfully, and raised the bet by another silver. Anders felt that Wicked Grace was the only thing capable of conjuring a serious expression on the woman’s face.

            “Are you in, Blondie?”

            “Yes, yes, I’m in.” Anders contributed his share to the pile of coins, and waited for Aveline to decide on her move. Fenris came next, his expression cryptic as he flung the silver onto the table. Merril had withdrawn from the game a while ago, still confounded by its rules. Instead, she had taken position next to Varric, and had become very good at giving away his hand. Amusingly enough, the Dwarf did not seem to mind that he was losing thanks to her.

            “Any idea where Hawke might be?” Anders asked. The question had been dancing on his lips for the better part of an hour. He struggled to make it sound casual. “I thought she was to join us tonight.”

            “She wanted to have a friendly chat with Prince Vael first,” Varric replied while dealing out another hand.

            “If she has kept her wits about, he is probably felicitating her as we speak,” Isabela chimed in.

            “You _are_ going to use that word at every opportunity, aren’t you?” Varric chuckled.

            “Is she saying what I think she’s saying?” Anders threw a bewildered look at the Dwarf.

            “Oh, I am saying _more_ than you think I am saying,” Isabela purred, and rearranged her cards with languid motions.

            “Prince Holy Crotch?!” The Healer pursued indignantly.

            “Nothing holy to be found once you pop that buckle of his, I am sure,” the pirate captain smiled wickedly. “Though, I suppose, one might kneel and… pray.”

            “That is not a picture I wanted in my head,” Anders muttered, rubbing his temples.

            “What’s wrong with the picture?” Merril asked innocently. “Is it because Hawke would be praying to a man and not your Maker? Would that upset him? Your Maker, I mean?”

            “Kitten, if the Maker found that sort of prayer upsetting, the majority of Thedas would be swallowed by the Void,” Isabela laughed. “And people would probably say it was worth it.”

“Would you stop it already, you filthy slattern, and play your hand?” Aveline growled with a deepening scowl.

“To clarify, Anders,” Varric went on conversationally, “Hawke wanted to allay the Prince’s misgivings on her use of magic during the confrontation with a desire demon at the Harimann estate.”

            “Maker’s breath,” Anders cried. “Another demon? She has a talent for digging them up, doesn’t she? And why did she not ask for my help? I see the stiffness in Fenris’ shoulder. Something bad happened again, did it not?”

            “Come off it, Anders,” Isabela chided without taking her eyes off her cards. “Fenris merely stretched a muscle in an attempt to do his magical fisting thing.”

            “At least she let you accompany her to the Deep Roads,” Aveline remarked, throwing in another coin. “She should have included me, and left Carver safely in Kirkwall.” The Guard Captain shook her head wearily. “What a waste.”

            “She did not want to jeopardize your new position,” Varric offered placatingly.

            “A pox on my new position,” the new Guard Captain snarled.

            “She did not ask me along either,” Merril piped up.

            “Daisy, you were not made for endless, dark tunnels crammed with monsters.”

            “I suppose Hawke believed I’d get lost,” the Elf surmised dreamily, prompting a groan from Anders. Merril’s character combined with the ability to wield magic was the stuff of nightmares.

As the game went on, Anders’ thoughts continued their endless cycling around Hawke and the Deep Roads. Since they had returned four months prior, the two of them had exchanged perhaps ten words in all, most of them greetings. His share of the riches they had brought back with them Anders received through Varric, as he did any news of Hawke. Why was she avoiding him? Was she ashamed of having allowed Anders to see her at her most vulnerable? His glum puzzlement only deepened with the arrival of a messenger.

Varric accepted the note, then sighed. “Hawke’s not coming. Some sort of trouble at the Bone Pit involving pickaxes.”

 

* * *

            _Ditching her friends for some rusty pickaxes._ Anders rummaged through his supplies angrily, not really knowing what he was looking for. _Or ditching_ me _?_ No matter how he put the pieces together, they always pointed to the same conclusion: Hawke was avoiding him. There had been plenty of games of Wicked Grace since they returned to Kirkwall, but she had only participated in one that he had been present for. And then left halfway through. And the games that she had attended without him? Something always happened to make Varric and Isabela roar with laughter for a week afterwards. Even dour Fenris cracked a smile. There were too many inside jokes to count, and Anders felt more and more like an intruder.

The fact that he obsessed over the matter further stoked his ire, as he presently had more important things to attend to. His attention should have been fully focused on the mages’ plight in Kirkwall. Instead, his thoughts constantly wandered to a certain red-headed hypocrite and betrayer to her own kind. How had she managed to get under his skin? After all, she had never made any advances on him, and had never in her behaviour been anything more than courteous. And compassionate. And empathic. And… utterly infuriating. He walked to the door, hoping that some fresh air might clear his head, only to nearly jump right out of his skin.

            “Andraste’s tits, Hawke! I nearly shat my pants,” he cried breathlessly. His remark was greeted with an even look.

            “I _did_ knock.”

            Anders chuckled in spite of himself, and shook his head sighing. “This is most familiar. I suppose you brought some of my earnings. No food, though.”

            “Proceeds from the sale of some of the items we have recovered from the Deep Roads,” Hawke raised a fat coin purse for emphasis. “One third of your share, the remainder invested by Varric, as per request.” She slowly walked towards his desk – he actually had a desk! – and placed the purse carefully on it.

            “I have gotten used to Varric doing this for me. Why are you really here, Sabine?” Anders crossed his arms, now fully composed.

            Hawke looked around the clinic, taking in the changes that coin had brought. It no longer looked ramshackle. The walls had been whitewashed; the beds looked more comfortable and were covered with crisp, clean linen; canvas screens provided some privacy to patients requiring an overnight stay; the cupboards bore neat labels. Overall, the place looked well stocked and clean.

            “Impressive,” she murmured. “It really feels like a place of healing.”

            “You are not answering my question,” Anders said through gritted teeth.

            Hawke favoured him with a small smile. He only now noticed her drawn features and the puffiness of her eyes.

“He’s alive,” came the soft reply. “Carver survived. He is a Grey Warden now.”

Silence stretched between them. Anders was uncertain of how to react – should he express relief? Joy? Hawke’s sorrowful look paralyzed him.

“I may never see my brother again, but it is a comfort to know that he is alive.”

Anders pulled up a chair and sat down facing her. “Are you alright?”

            “As well as I ever will be, I think,” she replied, reaching for his hand, and interlocking her fingers with his. “Thank you,” she whispered.

            “A Warden’s life is nothing to be thankful for.”

“It _is_ life, however,” Sabine countered. “And, judging by Carver’s message, it suits him well enough.”

“You know, this is the most you have spoken to me in four months.”

            “Yes, I have been terrible,” Hawke admitted with a meek laugh. “Forgive me for treating you so poorly.” She sat quietly for a few heartbeats, clearly struggling to find her words. “I simply could not bear the pain your presence caused me. Every time I saw you, I found myself in the Deep Roads again, and all the helplessness and despair I felt at losing my brother would come flooding back. I –“

“You do not have to explain yourself further. I understand.” Anders looked at their intertwined hands for some moments, before gently disentangling himself. He then did something which he later bitterly regretted. He brushed his thumb over her lips, and kissed her. 


	11. A World of Sorrow

**“It’s been a long time since a demon lord has been unleashed upon the Primals. It should be interesting… in a terrifying, get me out of here kind of way, I mean.” – Valen (NWN - HotU)**

            Though Kirkwall had a significantly warmer climate than Ferelden, occasionally winter decided to show some teeth and leave a bite mark. Hawke watched the heavy snowflakes drift lazily through the air, and take a convoluted path up and down along the currents before finally settling on the ground. A thick carpet of snow already blanketed the city, much to the delight of a rabble of children playing in the street that ran beneath her window. She breathed onto the cold glass before her, and drew a question mark on the condensation left behind. Cold as it was, it took some time before the image disappeared. Yet the question it stood for remained. It had kept her awake through most of the night.

_What now?_

“Nothing,” she murmured, rankled by her inability to move past the thought of Anders’ kiss. Judging by his embarrassed apology, it had not been born of sympathy. To make matters worse, she was glad of it. And what a rattling admission that was! For the first time in years, she discovered that she wanted something for her own happiness. That it should be mired in complications was unsurprising – her life had ceased to be simple a long time ago.

“So, what now, genius?” She asked the ghostly reflection in her window.

Sabine could not conceive a better solution than her usual approach to emotions: stuff them in a box, and hide them under the bed. Her father had called it “compartmentalizing”, which was a fancy word for “not dealing with your shit”. Fortunately for Sabine, a discreet knock on the door spared her the usual descent into self-loathing that followed such thoughts.

“There is an Elven lady asking for you, Messere,” Bodahn bowed respectfully.

The visitor turned out to be Arianni, distressed as only a mother could be. Sabine listened with growing alarm to the Elf’s description of her son’s condition. Apparently, Feynriel’s talent had proven more dangerous than even Keeper Marethari could handle, and the boy had slipped into unconsciousness for the last few days.

“I am not sure how much help I could be to your son, Arianni,” Hawke observed crestfallen.

“Please, Messere,” the Elf cried desperately. “You are my only hope.”

“I would not abandon Feynriel,” Hawke quickly added. “Whatever healing ability I have is limited to the remedy of physical injuries. I have a friend, however, a gifted healer,” Sabine ventured. “Perhaps he possesses some knowledge that could help your boy.”

 

* * *

            Though the day was still young, Anders’ clinic was already buzzing with activity. Given the weather, the healer was not surprised to find himself treating a slew of sprained and broken limbs. There seemed to be no end to the lineup, yet he was grateful for it, since his patients were all that stood between him and his thoughts. Even so, the events of the previous evening kept reasserting themselves vividly while he mended fractured bones and slapped on bandages.

            _What now?_

            All Anders wished for was to take that bloody kiss back. Not because it had been unpleasant – his traitorous body made itself quite clear on _that_ account – but because it had made him _hope_. Why on earth had Sabine not slapped him? She should have been enraged at his taking advantage of the situation! Instead she had tried to ease his embarrassment. He certainly did not wish to be the type of idiot who mistook kindness for encouragement, but despite his best efforts Anders could not help himself. He _hoped_. It was a sentiment he had not indulged in since the magnitude of his merger with Justice had sunk in. He was still a man – the coin that he spent towards that effect was proof enough. However, he had an inkling that this particular itch could not be cured with one good tumble.   

The conclusion brought a painful wail, as he set a bone rather roughly.

_What now? Nothing… She deserves better._

Anders dismissed the banshee he had been treating, and was favoured with a long suffering look before the man shuffled towards the door supported by a family member. As luck would have it, Hawke chose that moment to stride purposefully into the clinic.

“I need your help.”

 

* * *

            Hawke and Anders followed Arianni as she led them through her modest home to Feynriel’s side. Keeper Marethari kept watch over the boy, her expression grim.

            “Serah Hawke and I must make preparations, Da’len. Look after Feynriel until we shall be ready,” the Keeper asked in gentle tones. She then motioned Hawke and Anders to the kitchen, where she took a seat and waited for them to follow suit.

            “You mentioned preparations, Keeper,” Sabine observed. “Does that mean you know what is ailing Feynriel?”

            “Indeed, Falon’ma. The boy is what the Tevinters call ‘somniari’, a dreamer. Feynriel is able to enter the Beyond – or the Fade as you call it – at will without the aid of lyrium. From there, he could even shape the dreams of others. Somniari often disposed of their rivals by invading their dreams and driving them mad. Fortunately, dreamers are uncommon – the few that are born with the talent rarely survive to adulthood thanks to the large number of demons they attract.”

            “You are sending me into the Fade, are you not, Keeper?” Hawke smiled dolorously.

            “It is the only way to help the boy, Falon’ma,” the venerable Elf replied. “There is still hope for his recovery, providing someone he trusts guides him through this difficult time. There are few people that Feynriel trusts, and only one he worships – you.”

            The Keeper then proceeded to explain what would be involved, emphasizing that she could sustain the magic required to keep Sabine and Anders in the Fade for a few hours.

            “One more thing, Falon’ma. Feynriel cannot become an abomination. The destruction he could cause is unimaginable. If you cannot save him from the demons, you must kill him yourself.”

            Hawke pinched the bridge of her nose, and shook her head. “I understand, Keeper.” She waived Anders to silence when he started protesting, then went on: “I will do as I must, you have my word.”

            Looking visibly relieved, Marethari prompted them to return to Feynriel’s side, and begin the ritual that would send them into the Fade.

            “Are you serious about making the boy tranquil?” Anders hissed, grabbing Sabine’s arm.

            “I am hoping it will not be necessary,” Sabine whispered. “We should be able to figure this out between the two of us.”

            “There is something you should know, Sabine,” Anders blurted, suddenly agitated. “I am not myself in the Fade.”

            Hawke studied him for a few heartbeats before asking whether he’d prefer to stay behind.

            “No, I am not letting you do this by yourself. I – he will protect you, have no fear.”

            “Is there a problem?” Marethari asked, raising a quizzical brow at their hushed conversation.

            “No,” Anders replied determined. “Let us get this over with, shall we?”

 

* * *

            The first time that Sabine had found herself in the Fade, she had been greeted by her father who expressed great pride at her mastering a difficult spell. The world that had presented itself to her eyes then was no different from the real one. The fact that she had possessed no memory of her lesson was declared normal – an opinion which she accepted without hesitation. Malcolm Hawke assured his daughter that memories of the experience would return gradually, with sufficient rest – which she obviously was to get as soon as they’d return to their home. Long, restful sleep was what her father recommended, and she had fully agreed. Never had her bed looked more inviting as on that occasion, and she fell into it exhausted. How infuriating to have sleep evade her! All because the missing memories bothered her. In the end, it turned out that a sloth demon had tried to trap her. Sabine never again questioned her father’s lectures on the dangers of the Fade.

            The place she presently found herself in was a pale reflection of Kirkwall. Buildings she was familiar with rose around her, though many of them came to an abrupt end, as if a blade had sheared off entire levels and wings.

            “We must make haste. I can sense Feynriel’s mind straining.”

The deep voice startled Hawke. Anders had materialized by her side, though he looked more the knight in his griffon-emblazoned heavy plate, complete with shield and longsword, than the worn traveller she had become accustomed to.

“I did not expect you to take Anders’ form, spirit.”

“Humans feel more at ease around familiar things, do they not?”

“Forgive me, but I find it rather disturbing to see a friend before me, yet hear a stranger’s voice,” said Hawke. “Could you adopt a different visage?”

The change happened before her eyes, and in moments, a dark-eyed man with short cropped hair and well-tended beard stood before her.

“Will this suit you, mortal?”

“Perfectly, thank you.”

They made their way along the empty streets of an ethereal Kirkwall, their footsteps the only source of sound, until a figure shimmered into existence far ahead.

“Ware whatever comes our way, Hawke,” Justice advised in hushed tones. She nodded agreement, then stepped forward to meet the apparition. A smile blossomed on her lips as she recognized the walk and then the features.

“And here we are again,” she addressed her father’s image.

“I thought you might be in need of assistance,” came the fond reply.

“When have I ever accepted any of your offers, Torpor?”

The sloth demon wearing Malcolm Hawke’s visage shrugged. “There is a first for everything, is there not?”

Sabine laughed pleasantly. “Not for everything, no.”

“This is a demon,” Justice hissed. “Why are you exchanging words with it?”

Torpor turned an amused face onto the spirit. “Perceptive, your friend, if rather dull. Warrior spirits have an unfortunate habit of viewing the world in black and white, and forget about all those delicious shades of grey. And they are so _righteous_ about it. But, I daresay, _you,_ Justice, have found out that the world is no simple dichotomy between good and evil.”

“Hold your tongue, you foul thing! There is no question as to _your_ nature!” cried Justice indignantly. “We should not be wasting our time with this creature, Hawke.”

“You keep such uncouth company,” Torpor complained. “I am here to offer my aid, after all.”

“Which, I believe, I have already refused,” Sabine countered brightly.

Torpor tsked, then smiled impishly. “I _can_ be more persuasive,” he murmured, and his features realigned to that of a young man with startling blue eyes, and hair the colour of spun gold.

“Do not try my patience, Torpor,” Sabine growled, all the cheer gone from her voice. Meanwhile, Justice quickly drew his sword, readying himself for attack. The sloth demon reverted to Malcolm Hawke’s appearance, and raised his palms in a placating gesture.

“Peace, Hawke. I _am_ your friend. There are two others here, vying for Feynriel’s attention – one young and greedy for the mortal world; the other ancient, powerful, and proud. Neither of them will take your interference with their plans lightly. If you want the boy to live, do not let him be tempted.” Having dispensed its wisdom, the demon faded, then disappeared, allowing silence to settle once again.

“Why would a demon call itself your friend?” Justice rounded on Hawke.

“Torpor has been following me since I was a child, always tempting and testing me. I imagine he finds my presence entertaining. He may call himself my friend, but the two of us have different ideas on what the word means.”

“Why have you not slain it yet?”

“Better the enemy you know, and so forth,” Sabine replied tartly.

“I find your live and let live attitude infuriating,” the spirit remarked with a scowl, then suggested they focus on finding Feynriel.

            With Justice on point, they trotted along narrow streets and twisted passages until the scenery lost its ethereal quality. They stopped before an establishment bearing a three-mast barque with wind-filled sails on its sign, and “Vincenzo’s Wares” in filigreed letters below.

            “Well, here goes nothing,” Sabine breathed, then went through the door.

 

* * *

Hawke slammed against the wall, then crumbled to the floor in a heap. Her vision swam as she struggled onto hands and knees. She had not expected such physical force to come from her mother.

“And where have you been? No doubt dallying with that boy again,” Leandra cried.

“Boy? What boy?” Sabine whispered. Her mind felt like cotton. It was difficult to focus, but she finally managed to stand, if groggily.

“You were supposed to accompany your father, you were supposed to be there!”

“Wait, I don’t understand – “

“Instead you were too busy playing the village tart! Have you no shame?”

“Mother, I – “

“None of this would have happened if you’d been there!”

Sabine’s surroundings became clearer, though her head was still spinning. She was in her home in Lothering. “Ah, you filthy thing,” she muttered.

“You killed him! You killed him, you foolish girl!” Her mother wailed bitterly.

Sabine lumbered towards her accuser. It felt like moving through mud in a swamp. “Your father is dead because of you,” she murmured, tears running down her cheeks.

“Your father is dead because of you!” Leandra sobbed and fell to her knees in despair.

After what seemed an eternity of plodding, Sabine finally stood before her mother. She gently cupped her chin, and lifted her face to look into her eyes.

“That is true,” she admitted softly. A thin blade suddenly materialized in her hand, which she slid across Leandra’s throat in one swift motion.

 

* * *

            Justice held his shield at an angle to deflect the desire demon’s flame attack, then lunged with his sword, clipping the creature on her thigh. Hawke stood entranced at the far end of the hall, outside his reach. Now and again he could hear the woman speak, but had trouble making out the words. The desire demon had flung Hawke into that state after Feynriel escaped its clutches. Justice reasoned that keeping her in that state required considerable concentration, as the demon had not managed even a scratch on him. At the same time, it was bleeding from several cuts he had administered.

He readied himself for another attack when the ceiling suddenly burst open and a purple orb materialized in the air. Chords of light lashed out of the orb and fastened themselves around the demon’s neck. The chords lifted the struggling figure high above the ground, while others wrapped around its hands and feet, spread-eagling the creature.

Presently, Hawke walked slowly towards Justice, her eyes fixed on the helpless demon. She tilted her head, while a slow smile spread on her face. She then finally snapped her fingers, and the creature was dismembered.

            “I will _not_ be toyed with,” Hawke snarled.

           

* * *

            They found Feynriel in a courtyard, surrounded by the Dalish, with Keeper Marethari naming him a saviour of the Elves. His power would no doubt restore the ancient race!

            “Embrace your destiny, Da’len!”

            “Do not let yourself be tempted, Feynriel,” Hawke cried, though her voice and appearance were that of First Enchanter Orsino. “Keeper Marethari would never encourage recklessness. You know it to be true.”

            The half-Elven boy finally recognized the trap for what it was, and fled the scene, restoring Hawke to her usual form. The pride demon that had taken the Keeper’s form struck at once, furious at the interference.

            “Distract him for me,” Hawke commanded, then disappeared in a trail of cold mist.

            Justice had little time to contemplate how much he disliked being given orders by the likes of Hawke, as the pride demon – now in its true and most terrifying form – swung its club-like hands at him. He caught glimpses of Hawke behind the demon, encased in ghostly armour and wielding matching blades. Once again, she disappeared within a trail of mist. It brushed against the backs of the pride demon’s knees, and the creature toppled howling. Hawke had hamstrung it. Justice did not waste another moment, and jumped high into the air – higher than any mortal could have done outside the Fade – plunging his sword into the demon’s heart.

 

* * *

            Taking strength from Hawke’s encouragement to master his gift, Feynriel left the Fade.

            “You have done well,” Justice commended.

            “We both have,” Hawke replied. She studied the spirit for one long moment before venturing a question: “Can the two of you really not be separated?”

            Justice turned a severe look on her, then shook his head slightly. “I know I have caused Anders grief. The way things have turned out – it was unexpected. But some good may still come of it. I could give him the strength to free his brethren of the Templars’ tyranny. I should like to return here once that will have been accomplished. I am uncertain whether that would be possible, however. Truth be told, I do not know how to let go.”

            “But you would let go, if you could?”

            Justice beheld the woman, surprised by her anxious expression. “Of course. I gave my word. But I can see that you doubt that I should hold to it. You think that I have been twisted into a demon of vengeance, have you not? I am loathe to admit, but my friend _has_ changed me. Then again, I started changing the moment I stepped outside the Fade.”

            “There is a legend,” Hawke began. “Hanal’ghilan – the golden Halla – is said to have once had many brethren. But they had all disappeared. So, Hanal’ghilan set out to learn what had happened to them. It turned out that an evil mage, fascinated by the beauty of the golden Halla, had captured them – all but Halan’ghilan – and cast them into the sea. The Halla could only roam the lands at twilight, before the mage’s pet dragon turned them back into the sea. And the mage watched them every eve. Eventually, Halan’ghilan slayed the mage and his dragon, and freed his brethren. On the way, however, he was changed into a mortal by a friendly witch. She thought it would be the only way to protect him from the mage. In the end, he regained his true form, yet his soul was forever changed. You see, having lived a mortal life – if only briefly – had marked him. It is said that to this day Halan’ghilan is restless.”

            “I am not Justice any longer,” said the spirit. “And I shall never be again. Is that what you are trying to tell me?”

            Hawke turned             a disconsolate look onto him. “Neither is Anders.”

            Silence stretched between them before Justice went on: “What had marked Halan’ghilan during his time as a mortal?”

            “Love.”

 

* * *

            Anders woke with a start. A sharp head ache flared up while all the memories from the Fade tumbled through his mind. Feynriel was in his mother’s arms, who was weeping with relief. Keeper Marethari still sat on the floor, maintaining the ancient Elven magic that had sent him and Hawke into the Fade. The latter was still slumbering. Anders went to her side, running his fingers along her cheek, worried at her tarrying. To his relief, however, her eyes fluttered open moments later. A fond smile bloomed on her face.

            “ _You’re_ a sight for sore eyes,” she breathed.

            They took their leave shortly after, warmed by the gratitude Keeper Marethari, Arianni and her son expressed. And then, Anders found himself seated at a small table in Hawke’s drawing room, an assortment of cold cuts and cheeses set before him. He could not remember how he had made his way to her home.

            “You’ve been awfully quiet,” Sabine remarked, picking at some dried dates.

            “I am still trying to wrap my head around what happened in the Fade,” Anders replied thoughtfully. “I feel grudging admiration towards you. I am guessing that would be your effect on Justice.”

            “Well, I’ll take that as a compliment,” Hawke chuckled, popping a piece of cheese into her mouth. “So, you were the passenger over there?”

            “Indeed. Most unpleasant. I cannot begin to describe to you the frustration associated with losing control of your body. Being forced to go on a tour with someone else making the decisions is unbearable. Yet it must be how Justice feels all the time.”

            “’Tis a wonder he hasn’t taken over yet,” Sabine observed, brows arched.

            “Speaks volumes on his character,” Anders agreed, going for a pitted olive. “So you have a demon for a friend. And yet you call _me_ crazy.”

            Sabine rolled her eyes. “Torpor is not a friend. Not precisely. My father has done an admirable job of frightening the living daylight out of Bethany and myself with his tales on the Fade. Still, I owe Torpor whatever willpower I have to resist the tricks demons would play on me over there. That desire demon tried for a very low blow. Luckily enough, Torpor put me through such things before.”

            “That young man he turned into – he looked so familiar.”

            “I am not surprised,” Sabine shrugged. “He _is_ a member of the Ferelden circle, after all. Though he joined far later than you have. His name is Rian Mora.” Asked when the man had joined precisely, Sabine gave an approximation of three years before the Blight.

            “Ah, that would explain why I cannot place him exactly,” Anders remarked. “I spent most of that time in the dungeons. I suspect you haven’t heard from your friend in a while. The Templars have clamped down in Ferelden as well.”

            Sabine rose from her seat, and stood before the window. She parted the curtains slightly, and watched the snowy outdoors for some time before going on: “It is not because of the Templars that I do not hear from him anymore. You see, Tranquil are not much for keeping up a correspondence.”

            Anders slowly put down the cold cut he had lifted halfway to his mouth. “He’s one of the Tranquil,” he said quietly. “I remember him now. There was quite the kerfuffle when he was brought in. I am not sure what it was about, however, nor why he was made tranquil. It was strange, though, because he was a gifted mage, as far as I can recall.”

            “Rian was very gifted,” Sabine agreed. “As to the reason behind his fate, I believe it may be related to his liberal attitude towards blood magic.”

            “He practiced it then?” Anders carefully asked.

            “Yes.”

            “And you?”

            Hawke turned haunted eyes on him, then smiled sorrowfully. “I was very young.”

            Anders looked away, unsure of his feelings regarding such a revelation. Sabine was quick to grab a chair and seat herself facing him.

            “I have no right to judge,” he began quietly, working his jaw. “Maker knows, I have done – well, you know what terrible things I have done.”

            She lifted his face gently, and held his gaze. “And here I am, diminished in your eyes. Nothing scares me more than blood magic. It might be considered a tool, but I cannot think of any man-made item that requires lifeblood to run. I used it once, in grief. But no magic in the world – no matter how powerful – can bring back the dead. I paid the price for it. I nearly exsanguinated. Rian managed to snatch me back from death’s door in time – a thing I cursed him for. I regret having done so to this day, and would give a limb to take my words back.” She tenderly hooked a golden lock behind his ear. “We have both done terrible things, Anders. Still, I see you. Do you see me?”

            “I see you, Sabine,” came the soft reply.

            “Then take my hand and walk with me through this world of sorrow,” she whispered, and pressed her lips against his. He responded hungrily. Yet he felt compelled to tear himself away, and managed to do so shortly, albeit with great reluctance.

            “Here you are, and I see you, and you are _not_ diminished in my eyes,” he breathed. “But I am fighting a losing battle. I cannot bear to put you through that – and you know the end will come sooner rather than later.”

            “Will you not accept what little happiness this world has to offer to people like us?”

            “Not if it will end in your sorrow,” he whispered hoarsely. “Sabine, I can’t.”

            Anders rose then, and with a heavy heart, left behind the only thing he had ever really wanted in life.  


	12. The Knight-Captain Investigates

**“Oh you think it's funny do you?! You mess up the local economy with your treasure, you upset the balance of nature, you flash your magic around, and because of it maybe somebody's son thinks it's fun and goes out and gets himself killed! It's a bad example and somebody ought to kick your ass for it!” – Marl (BG2)**

 

            Orlesians thought the Free Marches as “quaint”, as they sniggered behind their filigreed fans at its mention. Nevarrans saw their people as only a step above the unwashed rabble of Ferelden. Antivans bemoaned their cobbled architecture. Fereldens were too busy worrying about rebuilding after the fifth Blight, and forgot about their existence. Respectable Tevinter citizens scorned the city-states’ independence. Cobbled architecture, quaint people, strenuous ties… Yet the Free Marches were intimately connected to each other. There was a certain harmony that Anders recognized as he had travelled, which made him view these obstinate clusters of civilization as belonging together. Except Kirkwall. This decrepit and desolate remnant of the fallen Tevinter Imperium stood out like a cancerous sore on an otherwise lovely bottom. Still, a thick blanket of snow did much to improve the city’s appeal.

            Despite his melancholy, Anders marched in a lively step through the winding streets. The snow crackled beneath his feet and the air was frigid enough to make breathing painful. Meanwhile, gloomy thoughts churned inside his head. He had walked away from what he perceived as his only chance at happiness in what was left of his miserable life, and was now regretting his decision. It took all of his willpower to keep from turning back and storming Hawke’s apartment. A very small part of him urged him to stand by his decision, and though it was a feeble call, it was insistent. Anders chose to attribute it to Justice, a thought that momentarily raised his ire.

On that happy note, he stepped through the doors of the Hanged Man, and was nearly overpowered by the smell of stale ale and depravity. The professionals normally fishing for customers outside the inn had taken refuge within. Testament to that was the inordinate amount of bare bosoms on display, and the raucous laughter of intoxicated patrons at too early an hour in the evening. Anders managed to flag down a harried-looking serving wench to ask for some tea, but received ale and stew instead, along with a vicious scowl. He beheld the ale mournfully for a few moments before pushing it away, and proceeded to work his way through the stew. It looked doubtful.

“Handsome gentleman like you should not be sitting all by himself.”

The mug of ale rattled on the table, and ripples ran through the stew as a scantily-clad lady plopped herself on the empty chair beside him. Anders was about to object to her presence, but the words died on his mouth when he looked up. Fresh-faced, full-mouthed, and with curves generous enough to be smothered in. Oddly enough, she wore no makeup. Usually, women of her kind were lathered in rouge and powder. Her long hair was a lustrous auburn.

“But a _contemplative_ handsome gentleman would,” the healer said, gesticulating with his spoon.

“And what makes you _contemplative_ this jolly evening, pray tell?” The woman purred, her voice a surprisingly pleasant contralto.

“I lost a game of chance and was debating whether I should try to win things back,” Anders replied in his most cheerful tone. His remark prompted a throaty laughter and a wicked smile.

“If you are bent on wasting your coin, you’d be better served wasting it on me.” With those words, the woman transferred her ample bottom to the healer’s lap, and kissed him promptly on the mouth. Although amused by such assertive behaviour – a necessity for a professional woman – Anders felt no desire to indulge in the pleasure of her company.

“However much it is that you’ve lost, love,” the harlot remarked, hooking a stray lock of blond hair behind his ear, “you cannot win it back. Games are all rigged.”

There was more truth to those words than she’d ever realize, Anders was certain. It was a sobering reminder, if a painful one. Especially since he had done the rigging himself.

 

* * *

Knight-Captain Cullen managed to stop himself just in time before slamming the door to Commander Meredith’s office. He had done as ordered regarding Sabine Hawke. It was an investigation that had spanned months, and the evidence he had gathered to support her being an apostate looked solid. At least, it had looked so to him. It took Meredith all of five minutes to tear to shreds the information he had painstakingly pieced together. Ser Varnell’s testimony was dismissed as libel, and she had chided Cullen on still calling the man a knight. Varnell had caused the Order significant embarrassment with his inflammatory and very public speeches against the Qunari, and consequently been dismissed. This did nothing to alter the man’s stance on the matter of the foreigners, however, and he continued pursuing his agenda as before. Hawke had apparently broken up one of his rallies, and had made use of magic to do so. Despite his questionable motives, Cullen believed the former Templar’s assessment of Hawke. The Captain had also been assured that a certain Sister Petrice could corroborate Varnell’s insights, though his attempts to contact the cleric had been unsuccessful. The fact that the Chantry Sister was presently on an extended retreat had not impressed Meredith either. The remaining witness reports Cullen had presented to make his case were deemed either vague or unreliable.

“The situation in Kirkwall is tensed enough without Templars marching into Hightown to drag off a noble – even an upstart such as Hawke,” Meredith had remarked. Cullen’s bubbling indignation at such a statement – that the Order should be hampered in its duties by a group of powdered, snivelling buffoons – was promptly quenched. “Find me irrefutable proof, and I will bring her in myself.”

Presently, Cullen stomped back to his office, drawing concerned looks from his aide, Ser Norris. He stepped through the door, went straight for the tapestry on the southern wall, and ripped it off with one sharp tug. He then bundled it up haphazardly, and deposited it onto Norris’ desk.

“I want to replace this with a cork board,” he barked.

“A cork board, Knight-Captain?” The poor aide stammered. “But that will never keep the cold out, and the southern walls are always buffeted by strong winds…”

“Then I will build a bigger fire,” Cullen roared, unable to contain his fury any longer. Norris shrank back, appearing ready to take refuge beneath his desk. “Maker’s breath, man, we’re soldiers. What use have we of painted fabrics on the wall?”

“But that is Holy Andraste’s Blessed March – “ Norris’ words died on his lips beneath the Captain’s withering glare. “A cork board, Ser. Right away, Ser.” The aide scrambled away, then turned back and gently retrieved the tapestry Cullen had so scorned, pointedly avoiding his superior’s eyes.

 

* * *

            With the board installed, Cullen moved the documents scattered on his desk onto the floor, and started sifting through them. Some he placed into a neat stack, others he carefully pinned onto the board. By the time he had worked his way through all the papers, the lamps and braziers in his office had been lit.

            “Poor Norris,” he chuckled, then took a step back to behold the fruits of his labour.  

When he left the Knight-Commander’s office, Cullen had been tempted to douse himself in lyrium and pay a visit to Serah Hawke himself. As foul as the stuff was, it had its uses, among them the ability to sense power. It worked rather counter-intuitively, however. Lyrium did not sharpen the senses to a degree that would allow a user to detect even faint magical currents. It served primarily to block magic, and generated a vacuum wherever magic dwelled.

Cullen always found the presence of mages unsettling shortly after taking lyrium. His sight would indicate that they stood right there before him, yet his mind argued against the notion. The stronger the mage, the greater Cullen’s struggle became within. Templar discipline helped him function during such times, and his duties never suffered. Of course, an intense sense of wrongness often marked the presence of a demon, a possibility that significantly contributed to the paranoia some Templars developed over the years.

Luckily for the Knight-Captain, furthering his investigation on the matter of Sabine Hawke would not require the use of copious amounts of lyrium after all. One of the red strings radiating from the small piece of lavender paper bearing the suspect’s name was tied to another such piece – where in the world Norris had gotten his hands on _lavender_ paper, Cullen could not fathom – bearing the name of Sebastian Vael, Prince of Starkhaven. And there lay the Captain’s unimpeachable witness.

 

* * *

            Sebastian Vael, Prince of Starkhaven, could no longer find peace within the tranquil halls of the Chantry. Between Grand Cleric Elthina’s refusal to reconfirm his vows, and Serah Hawke’s insistence that his duty lay with the people of Starkhaven, it was difficult to justify his desire for a life spent in service of the Maker. Given her usual laissez-faire attitude, the Prince had been rather surprised at Hawke’s position on the matter.

            “I am powerless, not indifferent,” she had snapped when prodded for an explanation. “But I have never shirked responsibility.”

Though their acquaintance was only a recent one, Sebastian knew her words to be true. The resurgence of the Amell name among Kirkwall’s nobility was proof enough of Hawke’s commitment to her family. But as a third son, Sebastian had never entertained the idea of governing. As a third son, a life dedicated to the Maker was certainly nobler than one spent in the pursuit of pleasure.

            “You are no longer a third son, my lord,” Hawke had observed in gentle tones. As much as it pained him to admit it, she had been right. The path before him was clear enough – had been clear for some time – but it was only now that Sebastian Vael found the resolve to follow it.

 

* * *

            “Step-step, glide, and step-step, glide,” Monsieur Lamarche’s clear voice measured the tempo, and melted into the background along with the lute and harpsichord. The Orlesian dance instructor walked slowly between the twirling couples, adjusting an elbow here, lifting a chin there. Sabine’s partner had long ago given up on small talk, and was now silently gliding along with an injured look on his face. Now and again, she caught a glimpse of Fenris comfortably seated in an armchair, legs out, back slouched, and an open book on his lap. At least one of them was enjoying themselves.

            Following her brashness, Sabine suffered through a week of constant restlessness, cycling between feelings of self-loathing, abject misery, and resentfulness against her lot in life. Heat rose to her cheeks whenever she replayed the events surrounding Anders. She had proposed to the man! While there had been no declaration of everlasting love, and all the paraphernalia associated with an engagement had been absent, the meaning of her words was undeniable. How on earth did it get there from an innocent kiss? No wonder the man had run as soon as he could. That his refusal had been a tactful one was testament to his gentlemanly nature.

Yet her behaviour had not been prompted by lust – her recent visit to the Rose did little to improve her mood. No, this was the result of years of self-denial. It all began with learning how to manage a farm, to keep the family from ruin; then fighting to protect them; then getting knee-deep in the muck of Kirkwall’s underbelly; crawling through the Deep Roads; and more recently pulling strings to elbow their way into nobility. And despite all her efforts, only one remained to her: her mother. How long since Sabine had thought about her own happiness? Her train of thought was suddenly interrupted by a discreet cough.

“May I step in?”

Before her stood the last person Hawke had expected.

“Prince Vael?” She asked doubtfully. “You dance?”

“You forget I had a rather wild youth, my lady,” Sebastian replied, smiling handsomely. Sabine could well believe the man did _everything_ handsomely, however. The Prince led her across the floor in long, graceful strides, complimenting her surprisingly feminine attire.

“I’ve not always worn breeches, and decked myself out in daggers,” Sabine chuckled. “Though being fashionable is rather new to me. And exhausting.”

“Noblesse oblige, as the Orlesians like to say,” Sebastian offered smoothly. “One must keep up appearances.”

            Sabine eyed her dancing partner dubiously, brows furrowing. This was not the kind of speech she had become accustomed to from him, brief though their acquaintance had been.

            “Let us just say you helped me view matters in a different light,” he answered, once prompted. “Serah Hawke, we might not see eye to eye on certain subjects, but you have rendered my family a great service. I consider you a friend. Which brings me to the reason behind my presence here. Forgive me for not waiting for you at your residence, but I have urgent news for you.”

            The Prince then guided her to a window nook that offered some privacy, and proceeded to describe a recent visit he had received from Knight-Captain Cullen. Apparently her activities had drawn the attention of the Templar Order, and they suspected her of apostasy.

            “The Knight-Captain was terribly disappointed that I could not offer the insights he had hoped for,” Sebastian said. “I felt you should know at once.”

            “I thank you for your kindness, Messere,” Sabine replied, struggling to maintain her composure. “I only hope that it will not spell out trouble for you with the Order.” _Maker’s breath, does he not know they must have him followed?_

“They cannot hurt me,” the Prince said dismissively. “Your actions here in Kirkwall have made a difference, in a good way. You have helped purge the corruption within the ranks of the City Guard, caravan routes are safer thanks to your interference with the Tal-Vashoth, and even the Templar Order owes you a debt of gratitude.” When Sabine expressed surprise at the information he held, the Prince laughed pleasantly, and went on: “The Grand Cleric cares about Kirkwall and its woes. Deeply. I have served her for many years. You can put two and two together, I trust.”

            Having said that, the Prince rose, and then brought Sabine’s hand to his lips. “Whether you like to hear it or not, you do the Maker’s work, Serah Hawke. I hope you shall continue in your good work, and know that you may always count on me for support.”


	13. A Templar's Burden

**Chapter 13: "Onward, to futility!" – Xan (BG)**

 

After an unusually long and cold winter, all of Kirkwall welcomed the sudden rise in temperature—at least until the streets began to clog up with mud and holding onto one's shoes became a struggle. Whether nobleman or beggar, the elements treated everyone with equal disdain, as Ser Norris was wont to point out. Knight-Captain Cullen could not help but feel amused at the great pains his aide took in keeping his uniform clean. While Cullen stomped unconcernedly through the muck, splashing himself and others in the process, Ser Norris walked daintily by his side, tiptoeing and clutching at his cloak.

"Did you know that Rivain sees a lot of rainfall throughout the summer, Captain?" Norris inquired, but got no more than a grunt out of Cullen. "Indeed, Ser. Their streets become terribly mired during that time, especially in the poorer districts. Consequently, the people over there have taken to attaching wooden platforms to their shoes. Very cleverly designed pieces, actually. Makes walking so much easier and keeps feet dry."

"Sounds to me like Ferelden galoshes would do a better job," Cullen remarked and distractedly accepted a pamphlet handed to him by a young boy.

"Galoshes, Ser?" Norris inquired shyly.

"Oh, that's right, you have never been to Ferelden. Galoshes are worn on top of regular footwear. They have raised soles as well, but they cover the leg up all the way to the knees," the Captain explained and took a cursory look at the paper he had been handed. The title read  _Injustice Visited Upon Kirkwall Mages_.

"That sounds wonderful, Ser," the aide exclaimed enthusiastically. "Perhaps we have some in storage, or could requisition some?"

"They are very popular with the ladies," Cullen noted absentmindedly.

_Knight-Commander Meredith has authorised the use of the Rite of Tranquility as a means of punishment for harrowed mages on more than one occasion in the last year alone. This ritual constitutes a form of magical castration and leaves behind an emotionless husk._

The article went on to describe the appropriate use of the Rite of Tranquility and argued that the Knight-Commander should be made to stand trial for abusing the ritual.

"This was written by an apostate," he cried in indignation. "Andraste's flaming knickers! Where's the lad?" Norris paled at the Captain's colourful language, then struggled to keep up with his superior as he retraced his steps. It was a fruitless effort, however, as the boy had simply vanished. With one last troubled look at the lettering, Cullen folded the pamphlet and stowed it in a pocket on the inside of his cloak. He felt certain it had been written by an apostate, although a disgruntled Templar could also have penned the leaflet. His thoughts flew to Samson, his former bunkmate. The man had been stripped of rank and honour by the Knight-Commander for secretly delivering letters between a mage and his sweetheart. The pamphlet may have referred to Samson's friend, Maddox, who had been made Tranquil as a punishment for his transgression. It had been a disconcerting incident that had raised doubts in Cullen's mind about Meredith's judgement. Surely, this had been a minor offense but did not warrant expunging a knight from the Order, or using the Rite of Tranquility as a means of punishment. The image of Samson begging in the streets for coin to sate his lyrium addiction appeared in vivid colours before Cullen. He pushed it aside yet again and took a calming breath. If there was one person in Kirkwall who understood the dangers of magic other than Cullen, it was the Knight-Commander. Templars had to be ever vigilant and act decisively where mages were concerned. They were not like common people. Mages were weapons.

It was with such thoughts that Cullen arrived at the Sanatorium. An unlikely facility, yet there it was, nestled among the apricot and cherry trees of the Chantry orchard: a plain building that housed retired Templars. While Cullen stopped for a moment to study the building, Norris mumbled an excuse and quickly bee-lined for the fountain that stood at the heart of the Chantry gardens. The Captain imagined that the lay sister his aide had been courting would be waiting for him there and found himself repressing a sudden stab of jealousy. A buxom and assertive lady that caused Norris' raw-boned face to split into a beatific smile at the mere mention of her name. Cullen envied that happy smile. Worse, he resented it.

The debacle at the Ferelden Circle had changed him profoundly. He was not without compassion, but the bliss that Norris presently swam in had thus far eluded him. Oh, he had dallied. It had ended in disappointment on both sides, however. The words "cold" and "detached" had been thrown in his face on multiple occasions. As things were, Cullen was certain that he would never be capable of truly enjoying human warmth. Performing his duty as a Templar was all that mattered. Becoming a knight of the Order had been his heart's desire since childhood. It made him happy. It was enough. It had to be.

"Knight-Captain," the Grand Cleric's balmy voice interrupted Cullen's glum line of thought. "Here to see Marten, I assume?"

"Indeed, your worship," he replied, bowing to kiss the offered ring that marked Elthina's rank.

"That is very kind of you," she remarked pleasantly. "He is having a good day. I'm sure he will be happy to see you."

Cullen watched the Grand Cleric depart and returned his attention to his destination. Retirement was not something that an initiate considered during the vigil. When Cullen had received his first taste of lyrium it had given him a sense of power he had never believed possible. Nothing was out of his reach with lyrium coursing through his veins. His body could be pushed far beyond its limits. It would never fail him. But mortal bodies  _did_  fail eventually. Lyrium could not prevent that. Worse, the substance targeted the nervous system and caused rapid degeneration in some individuals. Ser Marten was one such example.

Though past his prime, the man was still remarkably fit. He had greeted Cullen with a hearty laugh when he had arrived in Kirkwall and had smoothened the transition to a new Circle and Knight-Commander. His affliction was not obvious at that time, but it had already taken root. Cullen had witnessed his friend's decline with horror, watching Marten helplessly as his paranoia increased and his hallucinations multiplied. He had been transferred to the Sanatorium three months before, and Cullen had visited him regularly since. On a good day, Marten recognized him, and they spoke with the amicable ease they had shared form the beginning of their acquaintance two years before. On a bad day, the Sisters barred Cullen's way, though Marten's loud ravings carried past thick walls and echoed through the gardens. He did not have to see his friend to feel heartbroken.

"Cullen, my boy!"

There he stood, half a head taller than Cullen, barrel-chested, with the voice of a rumbling mountain. Marten grasped the Knight-Captain's arm in greeting, then enfolded him in a bear hug, laughing that hearty laugh of his all the while.

"'Twas about time you showed up, boy," Marten harrumphed. He held Cullen with a measuring gaze, dark, intelligent eyes twinkling with cheer. It was a welcome sight compared to the glazed-over expression his friend had commonly displayed during previous visits. "I ask for a vacation, and I am shipped off to this Sanatorium for three weeks." He shook his head ruefully. "The Knight-Commander is either punishing me for something, or has an unsuspected sense of humour. Personally, I had hoped for a month in Rivain. But I have had my fill of rest and relaxation and am ready to leave. There is only so much meditation among the blooming cherry trees I can take."

Cullen saw that Marten was not having such a good day after all and struggled to find the best approach of handling the situation. Misinterpreting his silence, the old Templar clapped him on the shoulder, sending his teeth rattling with the impact.

"Why the long face, boy? Don't tell me Meredith sent you vacationing too?"

"No, Marten, nothing of the sort."

"Well then, I'll get my gear, and we can depart –"

"How about a game of Castles first?" Cullen offered desperately. Marten eyed him like a chicken eyeing a worm. "The Knight-Commander has buried me in paperwork and this is my only chance of doing something enjoyable for some time."

The older man scowled with disapproval, tsked. "The lass needs a good popping of that cork she keeps up her arse." Cullen cringed inwardly at the language. Then again, it was part of Marten's charm. "Come to think of it, if a round of Castles is  _your_  idea of enjoyment, you need some attention too. When was the last time you have lain with a woman?"

"I uh –"

"Or is it men you prefer?"

"No!"

"Now, now, there's nothing wrong with that," Marten chided. "All is fair in love and war, as they say." Meanwhile Cullen started coughing violently and was turning an alarming shade of purple. "Andraste's tits, boy, I never knew you were a prude!"

"Not a prude," the Knight-Captain managed defensively between coughs.

"Just very private," Marten concluded, nodding sagely. "Well then, if Castles float your moat, I'll treat you to a round." He chuckled, pleased at the little pun and maneuvered Cullen to a game board.

Marten began arraying the game pieces upon the hexagonal board, then paused thoughtfully.

"Something the matter, my friend?" Cullen asked worriedly.

"Nothing, I am sure. These motions just seem so very familiar to me. I feel like we have done this before."

"Castles every Thursday and Saturday evening, remember?"

"Because Tuesday is ritual dismemberment day, I know," Marten waved dismissively. "I felt as if I have prepared this very board for the two of us before. What a ridiculous notion, though. I haven't seen a soul from the Circle since I have come here. Nor have I expected to – this is supposedly my vacation."

"I believe the Orlesians call it  _déjà-vu_? Apparently it is a common occurrence," Cullen said, praying that Marten would be satisfied with the explanation.

"Orlesians… Their men wear enough perfume to smother a squadron of knights, and their women are colder than a witch's teats." He stopped, musing. "Rivain has the most beautiful women – warm, wild, and willing."

"So I am told," Cullen mumbled, starting to relax slightly. He turned his attention to the game board and moved some pieces around, setting them in a defensive formation.

"Ever the cautious one," Marten rumbled, choosing an array that would have appeared chaotic to a casual player, but was, in fact, the most aggressive and ingenious setup Cullen had ever seen. Marten never ceased to amaze him.

"With an opening like  _that_ ," Cullen gestured at the board, "is it any wonder I opt for strong defenses."

"Best defense is a strong offense, boy," Marten chuckled. He picked up a knight, but paused before setting the piece back onto the board. His featured turned to stone as he fixed a stare past Cullen's shoulder. "Be still, lad," he murmured. "Despair demons are not to be trifled with."

A shiver ran down Cullen's spine. This was going to be a bad day for Marten after all.

"And my damned sword is in my quarters. A knight should never part with his weapon. Where is  _your_  sword, lad?" Marten hissed, his eyes darting to Cullen's left. Before the younger man could react, Marten uncoiled from his seat in one fluid motion, grabbed his chair, and crossed the room in three long strides.

"Marten, no!" Cullen cried in vain, while his deranged friend brought down the chair on the back of an unsuspecting inmate. The man swayed on his feet for a few heartbeats, then crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

"Get help, lad!" Marten roared, a splintered chair leg in each hand, body poised for attack. Other inmates responded to his threatening stance, readying for battle. Cullen moved between him and the others, only to be brushed aside. "Get help, I say!" The melee exploded.

Though it was not long before strong arms began to untangle the knot of former knights, Cullen had acquired a split lip and a broken nose in his efforts to diffuse the situation. His right eye was beginning to swell shut as well. Meanwhile, Marten was roaring in his mountainous voice with murder in his eyes, while four lay brothers finally managed to pin him down. Cullen moved to intervene, but a lay sister barred his way.

"Better for you to leave, Knight-Captain," she suggested mildly.

"I cannot just leave! That is my friend there."

"No, he isn't, Knight-Captain," the lay sister replied gently. "Not right now."

Cullen held the woman with his one good eye, her words filling him with despair. That was not his friend, and might never be his friend again. Feeling drained, he left the Sanatorium.

_Maker, is this all necessary? Is it worth it?_

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to thank the wonderful EasternViolet (on FF.net) for agreeing to beta this fanfic for me. Any improvements in my writing starting with Chapter 12 are thanks to her guidance.


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